


Chrysalis

by Zephyrantes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 86
Words: 179,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22962499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zephyrantes/pseuds/Zephyrantes
Summary: He was being hauled up and half-carried, life dribbling out of him in spurts, aware of nothing but bone shattering pain and Sam’s voice; Sammy talking and talking.Sam.Aw, God.Sam.  He gasped and held his breath so Sam wouldn’t see him wince. There was something he needed to say, something he needed to tell his brother.“I’m proud of us.”He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, on Sam’s face. The one good thing he’d done with his life, and he tried to muster up a smile, to tell Sam it was okay. He was done. It was okay to let go.So he did.---or---The one where Sam tries to save Dean from the Mark of Cain and Dean tries to save Sam from himself. So it's business as usual, then. Along the way they run into a girl, a kid, some monsters, and the required impending apocalypse. They may keep some secrets from each other, and really, when was the last time anything ever went according to plan?  Story picks up from the end of season 9.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 20





	1. Burn

**Author's Note:**

> For E, for the beta and the unflagging encouragement, and for just being there when I hit a wall and needed to be coaxed of out a hole with cheese and/or cake, depending on the day.
> 
> Note: I had not seen season 10 when I wrote this, so any similarities are hopefully glancing and not overlaps.
> 
> Please be forewarned this is likely to be inadequately tagged, so general warning here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Cody Crump.

_(Previously:_ Season 9 _)_

Intro

__

He’d failed.

__

He’d screwed this up, like he’d screwed up everything else. If he could just _think_ around the pain that was the faltering beat of his heart, the wooziness that was blood loss, if he could just _focus_ , he could get his hand around the First Blade and gank that smug smirk right off Metatron’s face.

__

But he was too weak.

__

He was being hauled up and half-carried, life dribbling out of him in spurts, aware of nothing but bone shattering pain and Sam’s voice; Sammy talking and talking. _Sam_. Aw, God. _Sam._ He gasped and held his breath so Sam wouldn’t see him wince. There was something he needed to say, something he needed to tell his brother.

__

“I’m _proud_ of us.”

__

He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, on Sam’s face. The one good thing he’d done with his life, and he tried to muster up a smile, to tell Sam it was okay. He was done. It was okay to let go. 

__

So he did.

__

__

__

__


	2. Until We Go Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Ruelle.

He dreamt he was in Hell.

There was a voice rambling somewhere over his head, raspy and British and droning on and on and _on_ like it was making some kind of confession.

_Crowley?_

He tried moving, but nothing responded. Not his fingers, not his toes. 

He was paralyzed from the neck down.

He was paralyzed from the neck down and Crowley was going to talk him to death and beyond and _of course_ this was his Hell.

He blinked his eyes open. The room he was in looked like the bunker. The ceiling overhead looked like the ceiling of _his_ room, and it felt like memory foam beneath him.

But his body wasn’t moving.

He shoved harder and unexpectedly peeled out of his body, his hands translucent, sitting upright, half in and half out, which was just downright freaky. He stared at the bloodstains on his transparent hands, on his real-life jeans, ignoring Crowley still monologuing, something about _seeing what he saw and feeling what he felt_ and good God, for real? He snapped out of his body—friggin’ _floated_ —and found himself in the Bunker’s hallway, his ghostly boots not touching the ground.

What the hell?

Was he a friggin’ _ghost_? Was he stuck in the Veil?

He couldn’t be. He’d earned his express ticket downstairs a few times over. The holding pen for Heaven was for _good_ people.

He had to find Sam. Who knew, maybe the bunker’s warding kept out Reapers and Hellhounds. And maybe by bringing him here, Sam had forestalled his trip below, and he’d take that. He’d take staying out of the pit, the fire and the blood and the gut and Alastair humming show tunes to himself as he dug around in his entrails, digging and digging until blood gushed tacky warm down his sides, his intestines twisted and sliced and his throat hoarse from screaming.

A flicker shuddered through him, a cold pull towards nothingness, and he was suddenly see-through and wispy.

_Shit._ This ghost crap was harder than he thought.

He had to find Sam.

He _drifted_ down the hallway towards the kitchen. 

Sam wasn’t there. Sam was probably out, looking for Cas, or one of Cas’ angel pals, or a spell, or some way to bring him back.

Or. 

Sam was out on the hillside behind the bunker, gathering up a cord of wood for a pyre.

He stopped and shuddered again. It was suddenly _colder._

Overhead, the lights flickered. 

Was he doing that? 

A familiar voice came out of the darkness.

_"Dean?"_

_“_ Kevin?” He peered down the dim hallway, but there wasn’t anyone there. Did ghosts see other ghosts?

_"Hey there, Grumpy."_

That was a different voice, one that sounded like…

“Pamela?? What are you doing here?” He frowned in confusion. ”Why aren’t you in Heaven?”

This wasn’t making sense. Pamela had been Up Above the last time he saw her, at her endless concert at the Meadowlands.

_"Dean? "_ _"Dean, honey, that you?"_

And that was _Ellen’s_ voice, smoky with affection and concern, behind Jo’s lighter one, and this was all wrong. They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t be ghosts.

“Jo? Ellen? What is this?”

_"DEAN."_

He jumped. He _knew_ that voice. He snapped to attention.

_"I gave you a job, Dean. Watch out for Sammy. Why are you here? I told you to watch out for your brother."_

“Dad, I…” He brought his hands up towards the wound in his chest to explain, but there was no wound there. There was still blood on his hands, wet and slickly red—but it wasn’t his. It was the blood of the ghosts suddenly crowded all around him, Kevin and Pamela and Jo and Ellen and Dad, their burnt black eye sockets staring accusingly at him and the wounds in _their_ chests bleeding all over him, spilling onto his hands, splashing down between his fingers, turning into rust-coloured stains on his hooves. He looked down at his hands blankly, watching as the blood turned into flames and his fingers turned into claws.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall brought his head up. Sam. He shied away from the kitchen door, not wanting Sammy to see him yet, and definitely not like this. But Sam turned the corner and just looked at him, completely unsurprised by the horns on his head and the flames on his claws.

_Death_ was standing just behind Sam.

No. No no no no no no.

There was nothing in Sam’s eyes but a world of weariness.

_Please tell me, Dean. Exactly what is the_ upside _of me being alive?_

Sam was taking Death’s skeletal hand.

No. No no.

He lunged for Sam, reached out to Sam, to hold on to him, to save him, to keep Sam with him.

And Sam burned.

He’d forgotten his hands were fire.

And Sam burned.

Dean went down on his knees, pulling his errant hands inwards to himself but it was too late. He went down, blinded by tears, his heart tearing, his lungs heaving with sobs that would turn him inside out.

His soul ripped to shreds.

Everything he touched burned and crumbled to ash around him, until all that was left to him was darkness, howling and eternal.

******

He’d done this before. Dug a hole six foot deep into hard packed soil, and shoveled dirt over his heart. Driven a thousand miles to nowhere, and hit a dog.

The oak logs were heavier without Dean to pick up the other end. He needed dry leaves and hickory and pine branches to start the fire, then stout limbs of oak to keep it burning hot. If he just concentrated on what he was doing, stacking the logs into the right formation, he’d be able to keep from thinking about other things, about the body he was going to lay across the top of the pyre he was building, about getting Dean’s old leather jacket out of the Impala and covering him with it, about lighting that match and dropping it, about watching everything go up in flames, this time and all the times before, and why did anyone think he could keep doing this?

Gabriel had lied. A hundred Tuesdays at the Mystery Spot, six months, four months, a year; it never got any easier. Every time hurt as much as the first time, and it never got better.

He laid the last log down across the top and turned back towards the bunker.

He hadn’t listened to Bobby the first time. He’d built a pine box and dug down deep, because Dean would need a body to come back to. There was nothing to bury the second time, and he’d just run, because he hadn’t wanted to find one. He hadn’t wanted to be faced with that decision again. 

He swung open the bunker’s door and let it clang shut behind him. He walked past the glowing map in the anteroom, not looking at it. He took the short steps down into the library, mechanically preparing to turn right into the hallway. A gleam of light reflected through glass caught his eye, an opened fifth on the table, Dean’s last bottle.

He stopped. He should raise a toast. He could take a minute for that. He’d raise a toast to Dean’s own personal heaven, strippers and all, though he had a feeling Dean’s heaven wouldn’t be that at all.

To Dean’s Heaven, whatever it was.

The whiskey burned its way down his throat. He poured himself another, feeling the liquid fall into a hole that had never been there before. He shut his eyes hard against the feeling of Dean’s hand slipping from his face all over again, Dean’s weight slumping heavily against him, the setting chill of Dean’s skin.

He drained his glass in one gulp and stared through the clear bottom. It was tedious, pouring in two fingers worth and sipping like there was company when there was no one looking. No one to care. It was just much faster to drink it straight. He took a swig, the neck of the bottle swinging loosely between his fingers, pacing restlessly to the other end of the room.

It was time. It was time to lock this place up as he had meant to lock up the gates of hell, and walk away. Walk away from the family business.

Walk away from his brother.

He’d said he’d would.

When Dean had pressed him about Gadreel, about saving him no matter the consequences or the cost, he’d said: _No, Dean. I wouldn’t. Same circumstances, I wouldn’t._

And Dean had said: _It’s better this way._

He stopped and hurled the bottle across the room, the sound of glass breaking like all the things he’d broken, like the broken thing he’d seen in Dean’s eyes. Like whiskey seeping through his hands, he could feel the life ebbing out of Dean’s body—the feeling of Dean doing something Dean had never, _ever_ done.

Letting go of fighting. Letting go of life.

Letting go of him.

And he was falling.

He would never stop falling.

He went around the room again, hollow footsteps echoing in the empty space. He bit down on his tongue, on the things he had said, things that he thought they would work through, tomorrow, because there had always been a tomorrow, hadn’t there? They’d gone through hell literally, and they’d always come through.

It couldn’t end like this.

With a single furious sweep of his arm he cleared the shelf nearest to him, the thud of the books hitting the floor loud in the silence where there should have been a voice.

He was not going to let it end like this.

******

He summoned Crowley, because Crowley had gotten Dean into this, and Crowley was going to get him out.

“Bring him back.” He grit out. “You owe us, Crowley. So you _bring him back_.”

If Crowley objected to being slammed up against the wall, the jagged edge of Ruby’s knife set to the tender skin of his throat, the bastard didn’t let it show. There was nothing but a speculative gleam to Crowley’s eyes, reading his face.

“Moose. This is getting a little predictable, don’t you think?”

He dug his elbow viciously into the tender spot between Crowley’s ribs, hard enough that Crowley let out a little ooof. They were standing at the very edge of the devil’s trap, maybe even hanging over the edge, but they must have still been within it, or Crowley would have thrown him off. He dug the tip of the demon knife hard into Crowley’s skin, drawing a rivulet of blood. Maybe it could do nothing permanent to Crowley—but it would _hurt_ , and that was what he cared about.

“Fix it.”

“You sure that’s what you want to do, Samantha?”

He glared at Crowley, as if that were even a question. The satisfaction in Crowley’s eyes grew brighter.

“Fine.”

He shoved harder before he stopped. “What?”

“I said fine, Moose. I’ll bring him back. Better than new, even. But you know.” Crowley paused, pregnant with the other shoe, before shrugging, “the rules require we make a deal.”

“Take it.” He ground out.

Both of Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re not going to bargain?”

“Does it matter?”

Crowley eyed him again. “No. I suppose not.” Crowley smiled, softly. “But.”

“What?” He snarled, because what was Crowley up to _now_?

“I wasn’t going to ask for your grass-fed goodies, Moose. Just…” Crowley pursed his lips thoughtfully, “Promise me a favor, someday down the road. You’re a hidebound honorable sort; you’ll be good for it.”

“ _What?_ ” There was no such thing as a free deal. He stared suspiciously at Crowley’s too innocent face, as if the fine print might be written somewhere between Crowley’s smarmy smile and Crowley’s too wide eyes.

“Tick tock, Moose. You want me to bring your brother back to life, or not?”

“A favor?”

“Someday down the line. Nothing big. Nothing terribly objectionable. I promise.”

He searched Crowley’s face again. Deceit, it was always there. There was a catch somewhere, and he didn’t know where.

But he didn’t care.

He couldn’t care.

He needed to fix things.

“Fine. Do it.”

******

Dean felt his eyes snap open. He was vaguely aware he didn’t really want them to, but it was as if someone had given him a command to wake, so he woke, eyes popping open like a freaky robot doll. He saw double for a moment, the light blinding in his eyes for a microsecond, before his vision shifted and settled and he could see again. He was still in his room in the bunker, which meant he’d gotten pulled back to his bones or...

“Dean?”

Sam.

He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, to close his ears, to make nightmare-Sam go away, but he found he couldn’t. He was breathing when he shouldn’t be breathing, air going in and out of his lungs like someone was pumping a bellows, and it all felt disconnected from him _._ He shifted his head towards the direction from which Sam’s voice had come.

“Sammy?”

His voice came out as a croak, heavy with panic. Not Sam. Not here, not in Crowley’s remodeled Hell that was the bunker, unless it was another part of the dream-nightmare and if he reached out and touched Sam, he would smell smoke and feel fire and Sam would burn.

“Dean.” The thing that sounded like Sam’s voice steadied, relief washing through it in a wave so strong Dean almost felt it curl around and buoy him. “Are you ... okay?”

Okay? He was in Hell. How the hell would he be okay?

He pushed himself to a sitting position, relieved when his arms responded and his legs moved. Fake Sam’s hands came quickly around and gripped him by the arms, helping him up. He shied away in panic and fear, and looked up in surprise when Sam flinched at his reaction.

“Sam?” He asked carefully.

Sam bit his lips hard shut, but the hurt still showed in Sam’s eyes.

Dean grit his teeth and let ‘Sam’ help him, only breathing again when Sam’s hands disconnected and he could see they remained whole and uncharred from the contact.

“Sam. What the hell?” He rasped out, his voice stiff and salty.

Sam’s eyes flickered down and to his left shoe. His tell.

Dean cast his eyes around the room. No Cas. The thoughts came almost too quickly now, because he remembered dying. Crowley. Hell. Him sitting here simulating breathing now and no Cas meant only one thing.

“SAM. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?”

He reached out and seized Sam by the shoulders, ready to shake him when he abruptly let go again, remembering he shouldn’t do that. Remembering flames.

Fuck fuck fuck.

“I thought you said you were past all this!”

He was still shouting. And Sam just looked at him, that puppy dog expression on his face, like the time he was 5 and thought it would be cool to be underwater and nearly drowned himself. Sam would always claim he had things under control, but blue was blue.

Dean snapped his teeth shut so hard they clicked.

“How much time?”

“Dean.”

“Don’t _Dean_ me. How much time?”

“Crowley didn’t ask for my soul.”

“WELL THEN WHAT DID HE ASK FOR?”

He was roaring. He couldn’t help it.

“A favor. Someday.”

“AND YOU BELIEVED HIM?”

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, wanting to pace. Only his legs hadn’t caught up with his resurrection yet, and gave out under him. Sam caught him before he hit the floor, and propped him back up against the headboard, where he fumed ineffectively, before he asked.

“Why?”

Sam looked down at his feet. Dean was on the verge of poking the bear and reminding Sam of all the things he had said—when Sam looked up, his soul in his eyes.

He clamped his lips shut. Sam’s voice was barely audible when Sam finally spit it out.

“I couldn’t let it end like that.”

Dean was on the verge of lashing back with _Like what?_ except he knew. He knew.

He looked away. He just didn’t think Sam needed that any more. _Family._ Hell, he didn’t even know if Sam had ever needed it, considering all the times Sam had run away, considering Sam’s various ideas of heaven. He thought Sam had outgrown it. Outgrown needing his big brother.

And he knew he had pissed it all away when he’d tricked Sam into saying yes to Gadreel.

Sam went on, still quietly.

“I needed to fix things.”

Dean looked at his hands. Fire and blood. He could still see it all there, on his hands. He clenched them closer to himself. Some things couldn’t be fixed. They were just broken. He was broken.

Couldn’t Sam see that?

“Dean, please.”

He closed his eyes to the ache in Sam’s voice. He couldn’t do this. Not again. He knew that ache. He’d heard it in his own voice when Sam had been laid out on that hospital bed, a tube in his nose, and there had only been one salvation. One hope. He had taken his chances.

He put a hand carefully on the bed and tried his legs again. They held, although Sam had a hand on his shoulder anyway. He stared at his feet because they looked strange. They looked like feet and not hooves, like boots, actually, still splashed with blood. He looked away, because he wasn’t sure it was _his_ blood.

“A favor?” He said. “That’s what Crowley said?”

Sam nodded, short and eager and careful.

It’d be a cold day in hell if he believed that was all the double-crossing son of a bitch had in mind. But as he looked into Sam’s face, at the shadows beneath Sam’s eyes, he put that thought away. For now.

He’d deal with Crowley later.


	3. Bad Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Bad Company.

He stared, because how could he not, at the unholy mess in the library. There were books on the table and books on the floor—Sam’s oh-so-precious books—priceless, he’d been told, by both Kevin and by Sam, though Sam was way more prissy about it. _“Don’t get salsa on that, Dean.”_ _“Don’t get mustard on that, Dean.”_ And now there was more than salsa and mustard those books were marinating in—that was his last fifth puddled on the floor, if he wasn’t mistaken, flecked with shards of crystal that had once been the Letter’s fancy pants liquor set, tearing holes in the soggy old paper. It was rage, and sorrow, and it was _Sam._

Had Sam done the expected thing—let go and moved on, got himself a dog and got himself a girl—it would have been better. 

Of course, if Sam had ever done the expected thing, it would be a first.

Part of him was glad. Touched. Relieved family still meant something to Sam, relieved he hadn’t screwed that up beyond repair. The other part of him had already said his goodbyes as eloquently as he could have said them. 

His job was done.

Well, apparently not, because here he was.

Footsteps thudded up behind him, and skidded to a stop. He turned, slowly, to see Sam staring at him, as if he were an apparition. A ghost. Because he should be a ghost, a mist of cold air and zapping lights, and the fact that he wasn’t, was all down to one thing.

“At least tell me you didn’t _drunk_ deal with the devil.”

“What?” Sam squinted at him.

He gestured at the room behind him, at the floor, littered with manuscripts soaking in whiskey, manuscripts that were probably older than him and Sam put together times two, their spines now hopelessly creased and broken open.

Sam glanced around him, and mumbled.

“Seriously, Sam?”

“Technically, it was Crowley. And I wasn’t drunk.”

Dean glared, because he was not over that little gem—a _favor,_ like hell—but it was too early (or late, depending) to start an argument, and he knew from bitter experience that to get into an argument on _technicalities_ with Sam, even a hungover Sam, was never a good idea. He never won. He glared at Sam’s bleary and bloodshot eyes, the dark smudges beneath them, the tuft of hair that Sam had sticking out over one ear, and sighed.

“Come on, I’ll make coffee.” 

He turned towards the kitchen, with Sam trailing after him like an oversized puppy. He stepped down into the map room, the opened and empty lockbox catching his eye.

He stopped abruptly.

“Did you pick up the First Blade?”

Sam stopped. Blinked. “Uh, no, Dean. I had other things on my mind. Like you, _dying_?”

Sam’s voice rose with indignation on the question. Dean snorted. It wasn’t like _dying_ was a particularly new thing for him, but a sideways glance at Sam’s face shut him up. Instead of getting into it, he went on through to the kitchen, filled the old style coffee pot with water and dumped extra scoops into the filter for his hangover special before switching the machine on to perk. He leaned against the counter, frowning when an itch started up by his left collarbone. He rubbed at the anti-possession tat underneath his shirt irritably. 

Sam settled himself onto a chair.

“So, what do you want to do?”

“We should go check the factory again. See if the Blade’s still there.”

Sam grimaced.

“It’s the most powerful weapon we’ve got.” He said as mildly as he could, which was not mild at all, judging by Sam’s truculent expression. He scratched at a burning itch on his forearm, his fingers bumping over a ridge of skin, the Mark of Cain.

Wait.

He narrowed his eyes at his brother. “What _exactly_ did Crowley want, again?”

“A favor.” Sam said blithely, before Sam’s eyes dropped to his arm, to his right sleeve, to where the Mark was. “Huh. You still have the Mark?”

He raised one eyebrow, and scratched furiously at the Mark some more. _No shit,_ “huh”. Whatever “ _favor_ ” Crowley wanted from Sam, it had to be a helluva thing, for him to bring back the one person capable of ganking his smarmy ass. Before he could point out the obvious, Sam’s face settled into that stubborn one again.

Dean switched tacks, scowling. “You heard from Cas?”

Sam shook his head and peered around him to check on the level of coffee in the pot behind him. He stepped aside so Sam could get at the much needed caffeine.

“Metatron?”

Sam shook his head again, then added, “Well. I’ve been here. It’s not exactly like Metatron would have called.”

He looked at Sam, nose buried in his coffee cup, trying valiantly to inhale more coherence into his brain. Here they were, back in the thick of angels and demons—not the movie—and for what? He stared hard enough at Sam that Sam looked back over the rim of his cup, then took his nose out and said “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean straightened. “You finish getting java-ed. Then we should hit the road.”

******

The factory was a bust.

Dean couldn’t say he was all that surprised. His money was on Crowley, since that made the most sense. As insurance, Crowley would make sure the First Blade was safely out of his hands, which meant it had to be in Crowley’s possession.

That complicated things, but at least it made sense.

What was _off_ was Sam. 

“Dude, where are we going?”

He had to shout over Ozzy blaring from the stereo, watching Sam’s head bobbing in time to the beat, and if that wasn’t _off_ , he didn’t know what was.

“Thought we’d head over to Big Chuck’s. Grab a cheeseburger and a couple beers?”

He gawked at Sam.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

Sam slid an amused glance at him sideways.

“No. Seriously. Who are you?”

“Then I thought we could go by The Pie Hole. See if Ned’s got any of that mile high apple pie.”

Dean picked his jaw up from where it had fallen down. He gave Sam the side-eye for real.

“Dude. What is _wrong_ with you?”

Sam had the gall to look innocent.

“What? We can’t take a little time off for once?”

Had it not been for the Impala’s upholstery, he would have splashed Sam with holy water right then, because, _come on_ , there was no way this was normal.

Sam turned the puppy dog eyes on him. _On him_. He was about to tell Sam off, because he’d wised up to all Sam’s tricks by now, when Sam said gravely, “Look, Dean. I’m…”

_Sorry._

“Yeah, whatever.” He cut Sam off before Sam could get into it. It was a nice day for a drive. Too nice to ruin. “Yeah, alright. Big Chuck’s sounds good.”

******

Dean stared at the bacon double on his plate, oozing cheese next to hot, salty fries, everything just the way he liked it—and he felt queasy. The last time this had happened he’d been as sick as a dog. Some kind of stomach bug he’d picked up from that dubious roach coach down in Apopka ( _Sam wanted tuna sandwiches—never again_ ). He hadn’t been able to keep anything down for a whole week. He’d just come back from the dead, and the Bacon Extravaganza was his absolute favorite, but his stomach was rejecting it before he had even tasted it.

It was unfair in the extreme.

“Not greasy enough for you?”

He gave Sam a flat look, pointedly eyeing the way Sam was digging into his own burger, because no matter what Sam said, carrots and celery sticks never cured any hangovers. He picked up his burger and took a bite.

Something squished between his teeth and made a tiny squeak-POP! like a miniature balloon being punctured.

It wasn’t greasy.

Not beef-y.

Kinda….mealy?

A bit slimy.

Sorta wormy.

and…

Dean frowned.

really, really _…wriggly._

He clamped his lips shut, scrabbling for a napkin so he wouldn’t exorcism hurl all over the table and Sam. _Crap_ , now it felt like whatever it was, was crawling around in his mouth, ALIVE, a gazillion little things trying to burrow into the insides of his cheeks, a few of the more ambitious ones humping for the back of his throat. He got the napkin to his lips and heaved into it, scraping his tongue against his teeth for good measure, and heaved again to get the vile sensation of _wriggly_ out of his mouth.

Sam looked up from his burger.

“Something wrong with your food?”

There was an edge to Sam’s voice. Worry.

Dean opened the napkin he had wadded up. The bite of burger in his hand looked completely normal. Nothing wriggled and nothing writhed, and _what the hell?_

“Dean?”

He licked his lips and rolled the napkin up again.

“Just a little queasy.”

Sam’s expression deepened into a frown.

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

And to prove it, he picked up a fry, though this time he gave it a careful once over before putting it into his mouth.

The stench of week old garbage flooded backwards into his nose, rushing up somehow from deep inside his throat, and the fry was _sour,_ like two days past south milk gone curdled _sour_. It was a taste he knew was bad, bad news, having learned that the hard way when he was seven or eight. Torn between spitting again and swallowing he swallowed, grabbed his beer for the bug killing alcohol in it and took a swig of that, and he was so relieved the beer was inoffensive that it took him a full minute to realize just how inoffensive the beer was.

It didn’t taste like beer.

It tasted like…water.

He took a careful sip.

_Son._

_Of. A. Bitch._

What kind of cruel joke was this?

He had Sam’s full attention now, with that crease between Sam’s brows that always led to Sam saying:

“What’s wrong?”

What was _wrong_? He was topside, some trick of Crowley’s that didn’t come with a full warranty against defects, and there wasn’t an exchange-for-refund option. He’d been back from death a time or two, but it had never felt like this.

_Wrong._

He looked across the table at Sam’s hopeful face, the past on a paper plate in front of him, Sam’s peace offering in the form of a bacon double cheeseburger and thick cut fries. It was too soon to tell Sam something was off, felt wrong, felt not right in the stiffness of his breathing, the brightness of the sun. It was too soon to tell Sam that Crowley had done something—something screwy—and there was no way to tell Sam any of that, not with that hope in Sam’s eyes, not with what Sam had given up for this time.

He forced the nausea down into his chest. He’d figure it out. Later. When Sam wasn’t staring at him, looking for him to make everything okay again.

“Nothing.” He snagged another fry and swallowed it whole, trying not to chew it or think about it or taste it and chased it down with a swig of beer. “Quit worrying at me, dude. Everything’s fine.”

******

His eyes were still green.

Dean wiped the fog off the bathroom mirror and stared harder at his reflection. His face looked back at him, the same face he had always seen in the mirror, the same face he had seen this morning.

It didn’t feel like his face.

What had Sam done?

He couldn’t tell Sam there was something wrong. He wouldn’t know exactly what to tell him anyhow. That he didn’t feel like he was really here? Well, his body said otherwise. That he didn’t feel like he belonged here? Yeah, that would go over well. 

He couldn’t let Sam do it. Whatever it was Crowley wanted. Maybe it was that, the price of it, him being here. First Dad, then Sam. Trying to save him when the truth was, he couldn’t be saved.

He looked down at his hands. Hands or claws? He wasn’t so sure. Not anymore.

A year in Purgatory, forty years in Hell. He had spent more time away than he had here.

He clamped one hand over the Mark on his arm. A brand. One of Hell’s own.

This wasn’t like when Cas had raised him from the inferno, when the only scar on him had been an angel’s handprint.

How could he tell Sam he belonged down there? He didn’t want to, but his hands.

He would wind up there sooner or later, but Sam. Not Sam.

Sam didn’t belong there.

One way or another, if it was the last damned thing he did, he’d make sure of it.

******

After the fifth night of Sam plying him with burgers and pie, he felt his hair was going to stand up on end and fly off his head from all Sam’s newfound togetherness.

“Dude.” He’d finally barked. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Sam said around a mouthful of pie and whipped cream.

See, now that, that just looked _freaky_.

“All this, this.” He gestured frustratedly at the remnants of pie and burger and beer on the table.

“What?”

“Whatever _this_ is. Since when do you eat whipped cream from a can?”

Sam swallowed and went for his beer.

“It’s not half bad. Are you sure you don’t want any?”

The thought of pie roiled his stomach. He shook his head and pointed an accusing finger at the slather of whipped cream still on Sam’s plate.

“Chemicals, Sammy. You can’t tell me that after years of bitching and moaning about all that…” and he made rabbit ear quotes in the air here “ _artificial_ _crap_ , you’ve suddenly decided your body is NOT a temple.”

Sam put down his beer and cinched his lips.

“I just thought we’d try to do some of the stuff you like for a change.”

Dean pushed his chair back abruptly and stood up. He paced to the end of the table. Agitated, he paced back. What he’d like…he heaved an impatient breath.

“What I’d like, is to find a way out of your deal.”

“Dean.”

He glared at his brother. “I was DONE, Sam!” He clamped one hand over the Mark on his arm. He took a deep breath and tried to temper his voice. “Done.”

Pointing out the obvious was the argumentative gleam in Sam’s eye. He’d walked right into that one, except this was _different_. His hand clenched over his sleeve and the thing he could feel underneath there. Things were _off_ —he couldn’t exactly pinpoint _how_. It wasn’t like hosting Gadreel at all. The one time Sam should have left well enough alone…he blew out another breath.

“We need to find the First Blade.”

Sam’s head snapped up.

“Dean.”

They’d been over this, but there had to be a way.

“I’m not letting you do it, Sam. Whatever Crowley wants.”

Sam pursed his lips stubbornly.

“It’s my choice.”

“DAMMIT, SAMMY! I thought you wanted to be out from all this!” A lamp went sailing across the room as he roared and whirled on Sam where Sam sat, staring mutely at the inlay patterns on the table. He wasn’t prepared when Sam looked up, the expression on Sam’s face too like what he remembered when Death was a shadow over Sam’s shoulder, back in his dream of Hell. He wasn’t prepared for the dead weight in Sam’s voice, when Sam said quietly, “I couldn’t, Dean. I just couldn’t.”

_Couldn’t what?_ Couldn’t go on? Couldn’t live day after day in the sunshine, pretending everything was fine when his brother lay in the grave? They’d done that. Couldn’t hold on, because all that lay down that road was death and doom? They’d done that too. Rock and a hard place, either way heartache.

Dean gripped the chair in front of him tightly enough that the wood creaked in protest and repeated himself firmly.

“We’re going to find a way out of your deal.”

Sam looked up into his grim face. And Sammy pursed his lips again, before conceding begrudgingly.

“If we do this, we do this together. No more secrets, Dean. I mean it.”

He opened his mouth to tell Sam off, because _secrets_ was what their family was made of. _Secrets_ was their entire fucking history, like Sam sneaking off with Ruby, _secrets_ , like Adam—what the hell, _secrets_ , like Gadreel. He shut his mouth abruptly.

“Fine. No secrets.”

******

Day 6. It was the sixth day since he’d brought Dean back from the dead. And things were normal again.

Well.

Sort of.

As normal as normal got, for them.

_“Crowley. Didn’t. Want. My. Soul.” He had reiterated last night for the hundredth time, trying to get it through Dean’s thick skull. Because Crowley, Crowley was all about the technicalities, and it wasn’t a deal_. Not for his soul, at least.

Needless to say, Dean didn’t believe him.

The evidence of this was Dean in the library, up to his armpits in old files and books, doing research, which Dean _hated_.

_“There’s gotta be something in here about breaking demon deals.”_ Dean had muttered, eyeing the entirety of the Men of Letters’ collection. Which was vast. There were rooms in the bunker they had not yet cataloged, and Dean now seemed bent on going through them all. Looking for a way out of a demon deal he _had not made_ —and he needed to get Dean out of here. 

He stared at the light spilling out into the hallway from the library and veered off towards the kitchen. It was too early for this. Too early to get into an argument—and he knew there would be one—plus he wanted something to eat. He stuck his head in the fridge, because it’d been a while since he’d made a grocery run, given the way Dean was behaving weirdly around food, and maybe being dead had something to do with that—and hey, banana.

He sniffed at it, because it was pretty brown, but it looked mostly okay. He peeled it and bit into it gleefully, thankful for the taste of something fresh after days of nothing but burgers and pie, road food, as far as he was concerned, never quite all the way cold nor adequately hot, unless Dean over-nuked it in the mini-Mart microwave again. And it was just weird, wasn’t it, the way Dean had been picking at all his favorites, like he’d suddenly developed a rash of health consciousness, except this was _Dean_ , so he knew it wasn’t that. He popped a cartridge into the one-cup brewer he’d splurged on—because Dean’s coffee peeled paint—and parked his mug under the drip, leaning back against the other counter, thinking.

He knew his brother. He knew Dean _hated_ being cooped up. That had to be what was throwing Dean off—twitchy and antsy and just well, _weird_. 

The coffeemaker beeped twice. He tossed the banana peel into the trash before he pulled the full mug out from the machine and headed towards the library. The library that yep, Dean was still sitting in, looking like he hadn’t moved from where he’d left him last night, looking all bleary-eyed and ~~still dead~~ hungover, which at least was perfectly normal when, and Sam stopped, looking over the pile of boxes and papers and books and files spread out on the table and the floor all around Dean.

“Dude.”

Dean looked up at him again, a silent _what_? in the testy furrow of his brows.

Sam bit down on his first questions. _Where’s your forest of beer bottles?_ or _Why aren’t you suckling at the teat of a fifth?—_ both seemed wrong—so he said instead: “How long you been at it?”

Dean shrugged carelessly and went back to skimming the page in his hand.

Sam frowned. It wasn’t exactly as if he could argue— _here, have some Irish in your coffee, Dean, cuz you’re freaking me out—_ but again, weird. Not normal. And not normal in their world was a bad, bad thing.

He needed to get them back on the road, back in the saddle, whatever. They needed a job.

Sam flipped open his laptop and thumbed it on. He checked his email, then opened up a browser window, scanning the long blue list of headlines in front of him.

Nope. Nope. Stupid. Nope. Fake.

Huh.

“Hey.”

Dean lifted his head again.

“‘Ice Mummy’ found in Pasco.”

“So?”

“Pasco’s in Washington. State. Seems a weird place for a mummy.”

Dean shrugged. “So they got a weird corpse, so what?”

Sam skimmed down the article. “They got three of them.”

He got Dean’s attention with that.

“Plus, four students attending Pasco Interfaith College have been reported missing, all within the last week.”

Dean made a so-so motion, and looked back down at his file again.

“Yeah, but it’s finals week.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Plus, these desiccated corpses turned up in the same time frame.”

Dean paused. Pursed his lips.

“You thinking vamps?”

“Could be. Shapes up weird either way. How about it?”

Dean looked at the cluttered mess of research on the table in front of him, still reluctant to move. Sam sighed out loud.

“This is what we do, right? You and me, fighting the good fight? Saving people, hunting things? The family business?”

Dean scowled. “Where’s this again?”

“Pasco, southern Washington. Just off 182. We can be there Wednesday if we leave now.”

The file Dean had been reading joined the others with a thwap. Sam took several more hasty swallows of his coffee as Dean straightened and stretched.

“Well, hurry up then, Princess. What are you waiting for?”


	4. Highway to Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from, who else, AC/DC.

The road to Washington rolled by in a haze of rain and _Rush_. Dean had the stereo cranked to 12, because 11 wasn’t enough to split his eardrums. It was too loud, and he couldn’t even think over the raging drumbeat, but apparently Dean could.

“You’re _sure_ Metatron’s not a problem?”

Sam rolled his eyes. This was the fifth time Dean had asked. It was all quiet on the angel front, and Dean hadn’t been able to raise Cas, either by prayer or by cell phone, profound bond not withstanding, and that made Dean antsy. He got that, he did, but he didn’t see how answering the same question over and over again helped.

“There hasn’t been anything. No more viral videos, and we’re not trending #Marv #SecondComing, so I’m assuming things went okay upstairs.”

Dean harrumphed. 

“And you’re sure Crowley hasn’t come knocking again?”

Sam sighed. “Bunker’s devil proof, Dean. Unless we summon him, he’d actually have to knock. You’d know. You’d have heard him.”

Dean harrumphed again.

“So who’s this we’re looking for again?”

Sam glanced down at his notes. “Jenna. Jenna Swade. Sociology grad student. Her roommate reported her missing last week.” He held up the page with Jenna’s picture. Pretty, but not his type.

Dean glanced sideways, and glanced again, only the second time more appreciatively.

And Sam did not roll his eyes, because, yes, he probably should have thought of that angle sooner. 

He set the page down back in the folder and closed it, because Dean was humming now, other things on his mind. Yes, _those_ other things, because that was how Dean’s mind worked.

Normally.

Sam smiled. It was good to be back on the road.

******

He left Dean on campus, because it turned out Jenna’s advisor was also a looker. His type, too, and he would have stayed for a chat, but he bowed out politely, and left Dean to it. He headed off to the county morgue, to follow up on the dried up bodies that had been found—a case of vamps if he ever saw one. 

“They were all found under the same bridge?” He said as he scanned quickly through the paperwork in his hands.

“At the north end of town.” The junior coroner looked to be fresh out of school, and still green. In this case, faced with three mummy-like corpses in various stages of decomposition, the green was literal. He wondered if Daryl—according to his lab coat—was going to throw up now, or if he would be able to hold it until after he left. Either way, he edged back unobtrusively, just in case.

“Uh, maybe you want to, take a break?” He offered politely. “Total exsanguinations are pretty rare. I want to make sure we get detailed pictures for our files, in case this is serial killer related. I may be a while.”

Daryl looked at him with relief, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing in time with his swallows.

“Yeah, I’ll just, um, be in my office if you, um, need anything else.”

Sam nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. Poor Daryl edged towards the door, trying not to seem hasty. Sam turned his attention to the file in his hand again, smiling a little to himself as Daryl’s footsteps sped up noticeably and within seconds was out the door.

As soon as the door closed, he looked up and around, checking for surveillance cameras before he pulled the syringes from his coat pocket. Opening one of the heavy drawers at random, he muttered a brief apology to its occupant while drawing the dead man’s blood he needed. His cell phone rang as he finished.

“What’d you find?” Dean began without greeting.

“The bodies were found under a bridge at the north end of town.”

“Fits. The coffee shop Jenna went to is not far from there.”

“You think they’re turning the kids?”

“Probably. Would explain why none of them have shown up as corpses yet.”

“Four kids in a week, though? How big’s this nest?”

He held the phone away from his ear as Dean blew out a tense exhalation. “Not small. You get what we need there?”

He looked down at the three tubes in his hand. “Better get some more, I suppose. I think I have time. Coroner’s new to the job.”

Dean chuckled knowingly. “Green, huh?”

Sam smiled in spite of himself. It was just like old times. “Yeah.”

“Alright. I’ll meet you back at the motel. If this nest is that big, we should plan it out before we go charging in.”

“Right. See you in 30.”

******

He had wanted to go back to the motel after dinner, but Dean stopped in front of the faltering neon sign like a bad habit, eyes sidling towards the door uncertainly, and Sam heaved a sigh. Dean looked a question at him.

“One game. No more. We still have enough cash left over from Jefferson.”

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but then he shrugged. “Fine.”

Except the moment they were through the heavy swinging door, Dean put a hand out to stop him. 

“Pool table.” Dean said under his breath. “Tall, pale, and Pattinson.”

He dashed a quick look across towards the pool table. And sure enough, lounging against one corner of the green felted table, was a pale, spiky haired wanna-be, lifeless eyes skimming over the few people in the bar, looking for an easy mark. The bloodsucker must not have liked his choices much, because he sniffed the air as if he smelled something bad, then turned quickly for the door.

“Come on.” Dean said, eyes fully alert now that the hunt was on. “Let’s go find that bat nest.”

******

They wound up ten miles out of town, down a long gravel driveway, deep into an apple farm nestled against the hills. There was a tidy double wide mobile next to a weathered old barn, the wooden planks pulling loose in places, the aged roof patchy with moss. A rusted tractor was parked off to one side of the structures, next to a new Ford truck and ’92 Oldsmobile Cutlass. The collection of leaves over both cars suggested neither had been driven in a while. He exchanged a look with Dean, who shook his head.

Sam huffed quietly. Betting odds said that there were at least two more bodies in that neat little house, puncture wounds in the neck, eyes open and looking skyward for a salvation that never came. He hated this part of the job, being too late.

The creak of the wide barn door opening dragged his attention forward. A sketchy looking, long-haired vamp came out, idly tapping away on a cell phone. Their Edward wanna-be ambled up, and looked into the barn.

“How’s our sweetheart?”

The taller vampire leered.

“Feisty.”

Spikey-hair laughed. Sam grit his teeth and glanced over at Dean, a few feet to his right.

_Think we’re in time?_

Dean shrugged, shifting and re-shifting the machete in his hand like a nervous tic. 

_Maybe._

Sam shifted, trying to find a line of sight that would allow him to see into the barn’s open doors without being seen. Before he could take a step, Dean signaled for him to stay put and took off, circling the barn to the right where the slats parted slightly to get a look inside.

Sam bit back a curse and chewed on it for the minutes it took Dean to work his way back to him.

“They’re it.” Dean nodded in the direction of the two at the door. “We should get her out now, while the rest of the nest is out.”

“She’s still, human?”

“Think so. She’s tied up at the far end.” Dean turned the machete in his hand again. Sam frowned at the twitchy motion. He looked a quick question at Dean’s hand and the machete in it.

Dean caught the look and forced himself to be still, shrugging that shoulder like he was trying to ease a stiff muscle.

“You go get the girl. I’ll take care of them.”

It was a bad plan. They were outnumbered if the rest of the nest came back, but their priority had to be getting Jenna out of there.

He took two syringes out from his jacket and handed them to Dean. “Be careful.”

Without waiting for Dean’s answer, he slid into the shadows and edged towards the door. Behind him he could hear Dean’s suddenly louder footsteps as Dean sauntered up to the duo by the door, machete loosely swinging in one hand, asking loudly,

“What’s up, bitches?”

******

The barn smelled of horse. Or cow. He hadn’t been in enough barns to know the difference. He wedged his way in quietly through a loose slat, eyes straining into the dimly lit interior. A solitary light bulb dangled from the ceiling on a long coil of wire, flickering erratically. As his eyes adjusted, he saw Jenna, just as Dean had said, down at the far end of the barn. Her arms were tied up above her head, the rope going up and over one of the crossbeams to keep her in place. She flinched away when she saw him, totally freaked. He quickly lowered the machete in his hand. He looked around cautiously, but nothing moved in the shadows. Good. He sheathed the machete and made his way to her, one finger over his lips to indicate the need for caution and silence; not that she could have made any noise around the gag the vamps had bound around her mouth anyway.

Jenna’s brown eyes were wide with fear, darting nervously from the machete tucked in his jacket to his face. She flinched back again when he pulled a knife from his pocket. He held up one hand, open in the universal sign of peace, and said soothingly, “Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re getting you out of here.”

He reached up above her head to cut the ties on her wrists first. “Did they make you drink anything? Water? Anything?”

She shook her head, her long ponytail flipping from side-to-side. There was a thud behind him—Dean—and Jenna darted a look over his shoulder towards the barn door. Another thud followed, and that should have been the two vamps getting taken out by Dean.

Except for that third thud. And then the fourth.

_Fuck._ The nest was back.

He sawed faster at the thick twist of rope. He wanted to turn and look, to make sure Dean was okay, but he had to focus on his part. Jenna was staring around him, wide-eyed and wider-eyed as the sounds of heavy fighting continued from the open doorway. Finally, the last bit of rope gave way. Jenna stumbled backward clumsily as her arms fell down by her sides, numb and stiff with exhaustion. He steadied her before she fell over, then reached for the grubby gag around her mouth, using both thumbs to gently loosen it from her face. 

The second the gag was off, Jenna screamed.

_What the hell?_ Sam thrust a hand over her mouth to silence her, then jerked it back when she almost bit him. He tried making calming, shushing noises, but she carried right on, screaming and screaming, high and panicked with unreasoning fear. She was staring fixedly over his shoulder, her eyes dilated to black, blind scared by something. He turned involuntarily to look.

That’s when he saw _IT_.

IT looked like his brother. Same clothes, same height. Except _IT_ was bathed in blood, standing in the middle of a slaughterhouse scene, gore oozing down its forearm, a dripping vampire head dangling in one hand. Two dozen or so beheaded and dismembered vamps were strewn at odd angles around It, their brackish blood puddling where the rough cuts of their body parts had fallen. The flickering light in the barn reflected off the wet jawbone blade in its other hand. Its lips were peeled back in a vicious, victorious snarl, and its eyes were ... demon black.

Dean?

Sam recoiled, stumbling back in reaction before he could think. The thing that looked like Dean snarled, but didn’t advance toward him. It just stood there, holding the oozing vamp head and the First Blade aloft, waves of anger and death shimmering from it almost as a visible aura. 

_Dean_?

The drumming of his heartbeat drowned out all other sounds. He could feel himself gasping and gasping, but he couldn’t stop. Whatever he’d been thinking scattered into the wind. The drills from his childhood must have kicked in—focus on the mission. Focus. His hands finished cutting through the bonds at Jenna’s ankles—God knows his brain had nothing to do with it—and he hustled her out of the barn. The thing just turned in place where it stood, tracking their movements with its night black eyes. As soon as they were clear, Jenna bolted from him. It was just as well. He took another deep breath to steel himself, and turned back into the barn.

To face his brother.

Later when he’d had time to think it through, he knew it was a coward thing to do. Maybe part of him hoped if the thing killed him, he wouldn’t have to sit there and face the consequences of what he’d done. Wouldn’t have to face the fact he’d turned his brother into a demon. Somehow. Some way. He’d known there had to be a catch in the fine, fine print. If the thing didn’t kill him, he was still depending on the fact that _Dean_ would never hurt him. That Dean would be strong enough to still be...there. He’d told himself he would face it, and gank it, but Sam had known he had not a single chance against _that_ demon, a demon powerful enough to take out the Knights of Hell.

When he got back inside, the thing was gone. Suddenly, his knees shook. He wanted to sit down, but he couldn’t. He had a job to do.

He had to track it. Hunt it and kill it.

Do what needed to be done.

No. He couldn’t.

He got in the Impala and drove, muscle memory and reflex taking over. He washed up a little at the first gas station he came to, filled up the tank, and kept driving. He didn’t stop except to gas up and get coffee so he could keep going, keep running. He’d seen a lot of shit in his life, but the image of Dean standing, _gloating_ , surrounded by mutilated, chopped up body parts, even if they were vampire parts—no.

That wasn’t _Dean_.

That wasn’t his brother.

His eyes were sandy by the time he stumbled into the bunker. It wasn’t until the heavy metal door closed behind him with a secure, sinking thud that he finally allowed his legs to jello out. He sank down on the steps and dropped his head into his hands, shaking from head to foot.

The first thing was to summon Crowley and beat the truth out of him. Figure out exactly what Crowley did. He took a shaky breath. When he was sure his legs would support him, he stumbled down to the storeroom for supplies. He was fiddling for the light switch when he heard Dean’s voice.

“Sammy?” weakly. 

He heard the shiver of exhaustion in it, and he recognized the tone, the inflection.

Dean.

He fumbled for the light switch and pulled apart the iron-lined bookcases to where the voice had come from and stopped short. Dean sat there, dead center of the devil’s trap, caked in dried black blood, and other _stuff_. The First Blade lay a little to the right of him, not far from his hand. Dean’s key to the bunker lay on the other side. There was blood on his face, blood gumming up his hair, blood spatter in creative directions all on his clothes.

Dean looked up at him with Dean’s green eyes, his face pale under the gore, the whites of his eyes showing.


	5. In the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Billy Squier.

The barn was a nightmare.

Dean fumbled in his pocket for the key to the bunker.

_Come on, Come on._

The sticky gore on his hand made holding onto the key difficult, and the shaking of his hand made it worse. He tasted death in his mouth, oozing down from his hair. He had to get inside. Get safe.

The vamps standing guard he’d taken out easily enough. Too easily. They had looked at him, and backed up, and he knew he had rep, but not _that_ much of one. He’d swung the machete, one quick swing, and it was one vamp down, and the other was running, making this god-awful whistling noise, high up in the upper registers somewhere, and he took another swing, just to make the noise stop.

But it was too late.

The nest was back.

He didn’t know why Sam didn’t hear them, making the racket that they were, practically stomping their feet and making that weird sub-vocal hiss before they extended their fangs. He shifted the machete in his grip, feeling like he was holding a Nerf toy. A brute of a vamp charged him, lightening fast, lank hair brushing his arm as the vamp went in for the bite. As he swung the little limp excuse for a knife, he could feel a second set of teeth sinking into his shoulder, and then they were on him, pushing him to the ground, raking their sharp nails down his arms, kicking at his shins. Worse, he _felt_ them, icy bodies pressing down on him, a mass of darkness and thirst, sucking at him, sucking, sucking until he was dry and withered and dust. When they got done with him they would move on to Sam, to the girl, to the next warm fleshy body, and drain that and keep going. And this interminable road they were on, him and Sam, taking their turns in hell, dancing to the tune of an unseen puppet master, would keep going on and on, one dark death filled night after another. He needed not just to gank them. He needed to burn through the darkness and clean house. He needed fire. He needed a weapon to make that white hot blaze that would sear the sickness from the world. Obliterate it.

He’d had that weapon before.

He could feel it humming in his blood, resonating in his mind when he closed his eyes, and he _called_ for it.

The First Blade.

It appeared in his hand, consolidating out of thin air. He realized now, the First Blade would always come to him. It was right. The fit to his hand was like a hot glove, zinging a spark all the way to the Mark on his forearm, making his vision ... better. He could see every detail in the night like it was day, see into all the deep shadows and around all the murky corners. 

He went to work. He vaguely remembered moving, each stroke automatic, forceful, joyous. Each swing hit a mark, sank into something soft and yielding, cleaving it, kicking up a spray of metallic tasting death. At about 12 he stopped counting.

He got a little creative, because lopping off heads was getting tedious.

And he was angry. Angry that killing vamps was so _easy_ ; someone should’ve dusted them all long ago. Angry at the cosmic joke of making humans claw their way to be hunters, when you just needed a little juice and the things of the night fell over like newly mown blades. He knew there would be no more scrambling and searching for that special weapon to kill whatever. No more silver bullets, no more exotic woods dipped in weird-of-the-day blood. The Blade would do it all, and it was glorious. 

He seized the last vampire by the hair, forcing him to his knees with his grip, and slowly sawed his head off, coldly watching the creature’s terrified expression freeze on his face as the Blade chewed its way through his neck. It seemed only fitting that their last moments before Purgatory should be one of utter terror and pain.

A scream cut the night. He’d thought he’d gotten all the vamps, but maybe he missed one. He swung around toward where Sam was cutting the girl loose, the head of the vamp still in his hand, the First Blade in the other. The flickering light cast bright flashes on the hay, and he saw two little things huddled in the far corner. Little gray presences, transient and fragile in the awkward bodies that the dark things fed upon. The bigger of the two stumbled backward, staring at him in stark frozen horror, with eyes that looked...familiar.

Sam.

_Sam_ was looking at him in horror. He could see the rapid pulse beating at the base of Sam’s throat, hear the panicked pounding of his heart, and the quick short gasps of air as Sam tried to get himself under control. Slowly Dean became aware of the stink of vampire blood around him, heavy and thick in the air. His clothes were sticking to him, tacky, warm, and gooey. The head in his hand made ploppy dripping noises as blood and little chunks of brain drained from it. At the edges of his vision, he could see still quivering hunks of flesh clustered around him, oozing and making a lake of tarry blood around his feet.

His feet felt rooted to the floor. He kept his eyes on Sam, as Sam cut through the last ropes and hustled the girl out of the barn.

Making his escape, never looking back.

The arm holding the First Blade twitched, and a whisper of thought floated through his head.

_They are still ...things. Gray things. Impure things._

_The job is not done._

He gagged, then retched. He dropped the vampire head, but his fingers were locked around the First Blade as if they had been glued to it. He had to get out of there. He wouldn’t finish the _job_. If he had a choice. If he was still him.

He needed to go. To get safe.

He didn’t remember how he had gotten here, to the bunker. One minute he was at the barn, the next he was standing outside the heavy metal door under the automatic floodlight. He was gasping like he had run a mile. He needed to empty his mind and keep thoughts from forming. His fingers were still paralyzed around the First Blade, so he fumbled for his key with his left hand, the slickness of the blood on it making the process clumsy and slow. He tumbled down the stairs and ran, ran for the only safe place he knew of that existed in this world. 

He must have blinked again, because the next thing he was aware of was being ... stuck. He looked around him. At least it was true dark here, not the weird night-vision dark he’d had in the barn. There was a faint light coming in along one edge of the room. Straining, his eyes slowly adjusted.

The outlines of the bunker’s devil trap were all around him.

His legs gave way as he sank to the floor, and his hand finally unclenched, dropping the demon blade to the ground with a clatter. He was safe. For now. There was no getting out.

******

“Dean?” Sammy’s voice echoed back to him hollowly in the room, a rising question.

He croaked out a sound that was neither greeting nor cough. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting here in the dark, hunched over, viciously not thinking not thinking not thinking, until he’d heard Sam moving around outside and called out to him before he could stop himself.

There was the creak and scrape of more shelves being moved aside, then Sam’s footsteps heavy and careful, thudding on the floor. A sudden flare of panic shot through him as he turned to peer intently at the dark corner of the room while Sam fumbled for the light switch. _Could he see could he see could he see_ in the dark still?

The dark remained dark.

He wanted desperately to feel his face, his head – to make sure his outer covering was still skin, his head still shaped like a head. Hell, and all the faces of the tormented beasts that dwelt within, clawed its way out of the locks he had put on his memory, and punched him with possibilities. Demons were smoke in meat suits on Earth, but how they looked there in the pit, and how they really appeared to the insane and the angels… He wanted to feel his face.

He hadn’t, because his hands were crusted with vampire blood. His face felt stiff with it too, but he didn’t want to touch one to the other because it felt like it would be making matters worse. Like he was bathing in the gore of slaughter. The parts of himself he could dimly see in the faint light looked and felt like hands he knew, feet he was familiar with. But feeling was deceptive—he had felt his hands and feet in the pit, too.

The harsh white of the fluorescent light flickered on overhead and he blinked against the sudden glare. He heard Sam approach the edge of the devil’s trap and the rustling of clothes as Sam squatted down at the edge of the circle. Left eye squinting against the light, he turned towards Sam, controlling his expression by pulling his lips taut in a frown.

“You look like crap.”

He tried to get his voice to settle. It came out a little too rough, a little too edgy. Sam was still wearing the same clothes he had been in the barn, the wrinkles and creases in them looking like they might now be baked into the cloth. It had been a two day drive to Pasco, and Sam had the haggard look of someone who’d done it in one long run. 

Ignoring his opening gambit, Sam looked at the ground and picked at a spot on the floor. “Dean,” He began, low and serious.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Look, I get that, but we kind of have to, don’t you think?”

Dean tightened his lips. “What we need to do is to summon Crowley.”

“Agreed.” Sam responded immediately, relief saturating his voice that they had at least that bit of common ground to work with. Sam was looking him over with the careful look of someone checking for injuries. Or horns. Dean’s hands twitched in the direction of his face again. He tracked Sam’s eyes, Sam’s expressions, and let out a hidden breath when Sam didn’t pull back or flinch as he finished his once over.

Sam still had that _careful_ tone when he spoke again. Hesitant. “How long have you been … here?”

For the first time, Dean shifted his legs experimentally. They didn’t feel as stiff or as numb as he’d half expected, having held still for countless hours. He cleared his throat, getting rid of the rusty feeling that had crept back in when Sam looked him over. 

“I don’t know. Since the barn.” He glanced at Sam, hating the admission. “How long has it been?”

Sam was trying to keep his expression blank, but he could see Sam was about a stitch away from losing it, having driven straight here from the barn, straight to the place Sam thought was safe.

Safe, _from_ him.

The cacophony of thoughts racing through his head came to a screeching halt like the lead car had suddenly braked, and everything crashed into a pile. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. He was so damn _slow_. He should’ve been quicker on the uptake and teleported himself to any other devil’s trap in the world. 

Anywhere but here.

He knew what Sam was thinking. Or not thinking.

Or what Sam _should_ be thinking.

His right hand twitched towards the First Blade before he could stop himself.

Sam shifted his weight to his back foot, the movement reflexive and automatic— _as it should be—_ Sam’s fingers dipping into his jacket for Ruby’s knife— _like he should do—_ except the Sam stopped and said:

“ _Dean_?”

He blinked. He looked at his hand inching towards the First Blade sitting clean on the ground beside him, and then back at Sam again. He curled his errant fingers into a fist, and shoved the fist into his pocket, Sam’s eyes tracking his every move.

“How long?” He demanded again, his voice a low growl.

“Two days.” Sam said at last. “I drove straight through.”

Then, as if the dam had broken with those words, Sam hurried on. “I went back in.” Dean glanced at him again. “You were gone, Dean. I didn’t know where to. Just gone.” Sam stammered to a stop awkwardly. “I wasn’t sure what I saw. It was dark. I couldn’t be sure what I was looking at.” Carefully, again, Sam asked. “Have you been here … this whole time?”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement. He didn’t want to talk about it, to admit to not being in control of what was happening. To admit to not even really knowing what happened. He thought he knew, but if Sam told him he’d blazed a path of death and destruction between here and Washington, he’d believe that too. Hell was like that on the mind. Time bent. Reality bent. Your hands were still your hands even though they were claws. Your feet still felt and looked like feet to you, even though they were hooves.

“I came to—found myself just outside. Used my key.” His voice was scratchy. His finger tapped the key to his left, glued to the floor with vampire blood. His way of telling Sam the bunker wards were still good. “Then here.” He shook himself to clear the cobwebby feeling of time/space bending.

They both stared at the key in a strained silence for the space of seconds.

“Do you remember what happened in the barn? Do you know?” the question sounded like it had been dragged out of Sam.

He took his time replying, though he remembered all too vividly. The evidence of what had happened was plastered to him in various stinking chunks. The passage of the two days since, however, had a wholly unreal feeling to it. He should have been stiff and cramped sitting there. Felt thirst. Needed to take a piss. He felt none of those things. He was aware he’d spent most of that time concentrating on not thinking. He didn’t know if that was enough to put him in some kind of catatonic trance that would make all the other things, the normal human things, irrelevant. He didn’t think so – and with that thought came the dread feeling that there was another shoe hanging over his head, waiting to drop.

“Yeah. Sorta.”

“We didn’t have the First Blade with us when we went there.”

He glanced sharply at Sam.

“I called for it.” He said brusquely, as if keeping his answers short would make the fact less noticeable. 

“Called for it?” Sam made the question a statement.

“It came--appeared in my hand.”

Sam took a moment to digest that. He could see Sam rummaging through his choices, circle through them again, then steel himself to speak.

“Think you can kick it over here?” Sam indicated the First Blade, lying next to him, the only thing in the devil’s trap free and clean of blood. The look Sam gave him was carefully unchallenging.

Dean resisted the urge to laugh, because if he started he would probably not stop. It would sound crazed, because things _were_ crazed. Maybe Sam thought the bunker’s warding would prevent him from calling the First Blade to hand if he needed it again. He highly doubted it. And then he realized that Cain could have summoned the Blade anytime he damn well pleased, but Cain had _chosen_ not to. Cain had deliberately sent them on an extravagant scavenger hunt to the deepest part of the deepest ocean.

And now he knew why.

He grunted, standing up, Sam rising with him. Hunks of crud peeled and flaked off him as he did so, but he ignored them. He walked the three steps towards the First Blade, and sent it scooting with his boot towards the edge of the circle where Sam stood. It slid with a rattle across the uneven paint lines of the devil’s trap. Sam bent down and snagged it up by the hilt, holding it gingerly with the air of someone trying to de-fang a cobra. “Be back.” He said hurriedly.

Sam’s footsteps faded down the corridor. He would probably choose the safe room and draw a second devil’s trap, then salt line and booby trap the room for good measure. It wouldn’t matter one whit, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Sam that just now.

******

He secured the First Blade in a vat of holy water centered in a devil’s trap, dumped a salt trench around the both and set up booby traps. Then he’d gone back to Dean.

Dean hadn’t moved. He appeared to be staring at the toe of his boot, frozen mid-step.

“Dean!”

Dean looked up slowly. Sam took one step backwards when he met Dean’s eyes—a flash of black there and gone again, _demon_ , before something seemed to snap back in place, and Dean’s eyes, his human eyes, focused on him. 

Sam huffed. The room reeked of three-day-old vampire blood, crusted heavy and thick onto Dean’s clothing. He could see bits of it still on Dean’s hands, and the strange way Dean was holding his hands, stiffly away from himself, not touching anything. It had to be driving Dean nuts, not being able to wash up.

“You should get cleaned up, man.”

He said it before really thinking about the consequences of what he was saying. The moment the words were out of his mouth, and he heard them with his ears, he stopped. It was as if there was a vacancy in his head where his brain used to live. 

Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly questioning his choices before turning his gaze stonily back down to the floor.

A demon would have been trying to convince him to let it out. A demon would not have handed him the First Blade.

Fuck it. Sam took a deep breath, and threw caution to the winds.

“Dean, c’mon. We’ll figure this out. But you’ve gotta come out, and wash up. That can’t be comfortable.”

Nothing.

“Dean, you can’t stay in there forever.”

Silence.

He went in for the jugular.

“Dean, I can’t do this by myself.”

Dean squinched his eyes tight shut. A long trapped sigh worked its way up from the bottom of Dean’s lungs, and a look of resignation crossed Dean’s face.

“You got Ruby’s knife?”

Sam froze. His blood congealed as he grasped the direction that Dean’s thoughts had taken, standing there in the devil’s trap he had put himself in. 

No. Just no.

Dean gave a strange humorless chortle and looked over at him from the corner of his eye. There was a little bit of the _thing_ in that look, contemptuous and mocking, as the glance slid over where Dean knew he kept the blade holstered. “It won’t work, you know. Didn’t do a damned thing to Abaddon.”

Dean’s gaze settled on his shoe again. The silence stretched, taut and brittle. 

His brother’s voice was rough when at long last Dean spoke again.

“Go get the .38. Devil’s trap bullets.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open a second before he snapped it shut. Clamping his lips together to keep his stuffing inside, he nodded curtly in acknowledgement of Dean’s order, turning away as he did so Dean would not see the moisture that jumped into his eyes.

“And Sammy.”

He half turned back. From the corner of his vision, he could see Dean looking straight at him, eyes alive with expression both tender and fierce now that he had his back to him. Sam inclined his head slightly to indicate he’d heard, and waited for what Dean was going to say.

“Best keep them on you."


	6. Some Kind of Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Metallica.

They had been here one time too many, the ingredients for Crowley’s summoning spell dumped into a copper bowl, freshly painted devil’s trap in front of them, a squeeze of blood, a lit match, and acrid, sulfur-y smoke.

“Hello, boys.”

He advanced on Crowley with Ruby’s knife, a flash of déjà vu.

“Fix it.”

“Fix what?” Crowley asked innocently.

Sam slid a look behind him and grit his teeth. “ _That_.”

Crowley cocked his head to one side and looked at Dean standing behind him.

“You said ‘Bring him back.’ He’s back. What’s not to like about that?”

“He’s…” Sam grit his teeth. “A demon. Possessed. You did something.”

“Well. I did say he would be ‘better than new’.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, because Crowley _had_ said that. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Then it seems you should have been more specific, Moose. Didn’t they teach you that at the big poncey school?”

He took a step in Crowley’s direction, but came to a hard stop, because there were hands on his shoulders, yanking him back. Dean’s hands. And he didn’t know what Dean was up to, what with Dean’s whole bromance with Crowley, but Dean had always been too easy on the bastard. He tugged absently against Dean’s restraining hold, all of his attention on the King of Hell.

“Just. Fix him. NOW.”

Crowley smiled.

“Or what?”

They had the demon cuffs and they had the First Blade. He was lifting Ruby’s knife again when Dean’s hands clamped down on his arms and twisted them behind him. The jagged blade in his hand clattered down to the ground in surprise.

“Dean? What are you doing? _DEAN!_ ”

His voice rose, turning too late to see the black eyes in Dean’s face. Dean yanked his left arm more tightly behind him. Sam twisted sharply, jamming his shoulder into Dean’s right collarbone, a take-down move that had always worked on Dean before, except Dean didn’t stumble. He didn’t even budge. It was like slamming into a wall.

“See, Sam. King of Hell.” Crowley murmured mildly with a mocking little bow, then pointed at Dean. “Demon.”

No. No no no no no no.

“ _Dean_!”

Dean’s face was like a wooden mask.

“ _DEAN_!!! Come on, you have to fight it! DEAN!”

Crowley smiled a cool little smile.

“Ah, Moose. Ever so hopeful.” Crowley gestured to the devil’s trap. “Dean, if you would?”

Obediently Dean scratched through the outer circle of the trap with his boot.

In the next second Sam found himself flung across the room and pinned against the wall, his feet kicking at empty air. _Crap Shit Crap._ He kicked harder despite knowing it would do no good, grunting with effort.

Crowley sauntered across the room as if he owned it.

“Now, knife, please?”

Moving as if he were a marionette, Dean picked up Ruby’s knife.

“Dean, no. DEAN!!”

His words fell on deaf ears as Dean handed the knife to Crowley.

“Lovely.” Crowley smiled, all teeth and no charm. “Well lads, it’s been fun. But things to do, Hell to rule, yada, yada.” Crowley turned towards the door, took one step, and paused. “Oh. One thing, Samantha.”

Crowley pointed at Dean.

“Your new pet. I wouldn’t try exorcising him.”

“What?”

“Exorcism. You know, Latin chant, banishing the demon to hell and all. He’s bound to this body now, Mark of Cain being what it is, so the effects might be a little…unpredictable.”

“ _What?_ ”

Crowley looked at him shrewdly. “You’re not quite so sure who’s really in there, are you, Sam? Of course not, or you’d have been spitting Latin the first time you saw black eyes in your brother’s face.”

No.

“That’s alright. You’re not alone. Never known anyone more stubborn in denying what they are than your brother. ” Crowley smiled, a bare flash of teeth, before Crowley turned towards the door again with a wave. “Have fun, Moose.”

The invisible force pinning him to the wall vanished with Crowley. He crashed down to the floor, scrambled up, and rushed over to check on Dean, grabbing Dean by the shoulders to wake him, to shake the blackness out of his eyes. He didn’t expect Dean’s fist to come up in a swift upper cut, smacking straight into his jaw, blinding pain lashing his head back with enough force to send him flying clear back across the room. His head cracked down hard on the concrete, and the room spun around a few times before it stilled.

Unsteadily he shook his head to clear it and looked back at Dean. Dean’s fist was still raised and half-cocked, frozen where it had connected with his jaw. Black eyes stared blankly into space, like a puppet without a master. Sam breathed out uneasily. The painted trap he lay on was broken. Ruby’s knife was gone. The .38 with the devil’s trap bullets was lying on the table. He’d thought he had time. Now, he could only lie there and stare.

The seconds ticked like eons. Dean blinked, then took a shallow breath. When his eyes opened again, Sam saw a faint sheen of moisture on the familiar green-hazel irises. Dean stared at his fist as if it no longer belonged to him.

Dean blinked again, his eyes focusing and expression hardening. “Sammy?”

“Dean?”

“Sam. I’m sorry.”

Sam rubbed his jaw. It was going to be a hell of a bruise, but he’d had worse. With one hand he pushed himself up to a sitting position, then stood.

“Don’t. This is my fault. I should have known better.”

Dean flinched. “Yeah, been there.”

_Gadreel_. Dean’s voice was low, and raw with regret. If it was a demon animating Dean’s meatsuit, then it was one hell of an act.

“What did Crowley mean about the Mark, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes slid away from him.

“Back when I was human.” Dean paused. “I didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Sam made an effort to keep his voice level. “What does _Crowley_ know about you that I don’t?”

“The Mark—it wants things. It’s like a compulsion. A drive. It’s hard to explain.”

“ _Try_.” Sam said between his teeth.

Dean looked away. “I had to kill. To survive. For it to survive. Something. If I didn’t—if I tried to stop…” Dean looked back at him, torn. “…it’d make sure it got what it needed.”

“The Mark.” 

Dean nodded. “Crowley said.” Dean paused at his ferocious frown. “Crowley said, Cain was able to withstand the compulsion because he was a demon. I couldn’t do it before, because I was human. And it was changing me, Sam. It was making me…” Dean looked down. “…something I didn’t want to be.”

_It’s better this way._

“And then what, Dean? You didn’t think to tell me? No. Instead, you told Crowley. You decided to try suicide by Metatron. Least you could do was go down fighting the good fight, right?”

He was breathing hard by the time he was done. He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more. The way Dean kept gunning for these kamikaze runs, or that Dean had confided in Crowley about the Mark without so much as sending an _oh-by-the-way_ his way. Or both. Both was a definite option.

He turned around.

“So. What does this mean now?”

Dean flinched.

“I don’t know, Sam. I’m not sure I can control it.”

The uncertain edge in Dean’s voice brought him up short. He waited a beat, but there was no pep talk coming, no rousing _kick-it-in-the-ass_ speech. And maybe for once, Dean knew he had bitten off more than he could chew. Sam huffed, and rubbed at the bruise on his jaw.

“Come on. We’ll hit the books. There’s got to be something there.”

Dean didn’t move. He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides.

“Dean. Books. We’ll find something. You said yourself that Cain is able to withstand the compulsion, so there’s gotta be a way. Come on. We just have to find it.”

******

The note sitting on the library table was brief in Dean's sharp scrawl. 

"I'm sorry, Sammy. Don't look for me."

Disparate expressions of disbelief fought for real estate on Sam's face as he stared at the words on the folded up paper. He set it down carefully on the table again while he blew out a huff of steam. Dean's logic, such as Dean's logic ever was when it came to these things, was ... impeccably screwed.

Words pretty much failed him at this point, which was a rare occurrence. The litany of absurdities to Dean's request ticked themselves off like a talking checklist in his head. Setting aside the fact that Dean was 1) his brother 2) a demon he had brought into the world 3) finding the supernatural was kinda what they did 4) all the other hunters would be on Dean's ass once they even got a whiff of what was up, because seriously, Dean Winchester as a Knight of Hell was a complication to the landscape nobody wanted 5) never mind the hunters, there were angels who were going to be out for Dean’s head for the same or lesser reasons, and 6) the crowning glory---this whole fiasco was on him to begin with for dealing with Crowley when he damn well should have known better. If Dean thought he could just up and walk away, vanish into the desert, meditate himself into stone on some remote mountaintop or whatever... or sit his butt down somewhere inaccessible like the Mariana Trench—aw, crap, could Dean do that now?

Blood thumped in his temples, signaling the onset of a truly vicious headache. He should have expected this. For all Dean’s pretty words about being family, when push came to shove, “I’ll take care of it” had always been Dean’s way of handling things. _Sammy needs a spotter for the heavy lifting. Better step in and take over before the kid fucked things up._ Well, in this case, fucked things up more. Dean would say yes to Michael, call on Cas, trust Benny, hell, even partner up with _Crowley_ , before he could bring himself to count on his freak kid brother.

Okay. Going down that road would get him nowhere. He needed to think—think things through carefully, and not just react. He needed to make a plan. He should check to see if Dean took the Impala. Hell, did Dean even need a car now? He should...

He stopped breathing. The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

He shoved out of the chair with a violent clatter and ran down the hall to the second safe room. The door handle was icy under his fingers as he threw the room door open and step across the unbroken devil's trap and looked with anticipatory doom into the vat of holy water at its center.

The First Blade was gone.

Betrayal was a cold vise twisting in his guts. Angry didn't begin to describe the tidal wave of feeling that swamped him—a simultaneous desire to knock Dean flat on his butt and shake him until he saw stars and grip him by his shoulders to hold on to what humanity may be left and never let go and then maybe knock him on his ass again a few times more. 

Sam sat his own ass down on the concrete floor and put his head in his hands. He was wrung; or he would have caught on to the fact that Dean had summoned the First Blade from whatever lockup Crowley (probably) had had on it in the first place. And Crowley would know how to rig an anti-demon lockup right and tight. He'd add this to the list of things Dean somehow 'failed to mention', which was getting to be a downright tome. An encyclopedia of good times. Dean’s ass-backward, unyielding, asinine, convoluted, martyr complex, and damned STUPID protective streak. 

The walls of the bunker closed in on him. He wanted out. Needed out. He wanted to drop, no, throw, no, HURL the damn ball that Dean was so afraid of him dropping. He walked coolly to the garage. The Impala sat quietly in her spot, elegant black curves gleaming in the artificial light, bright and spotless. Loved. His hand passed briefly over her keys, but settled on the ones for the ‘72 Dodge. He couldn’t sit in the Impala. Not now.

For a while, he simply drove. The flatness of Kansas was a balm, featureless fields and prairie for mile after mile, a road without end asking no thought. He didn’t have a direction, just out. Away. Somewhere new. Somewhere different. Somewhere where he hadn’t broken anything. Somewhere where he hadn’t screwed anything up. Somewhere where he hadn’t hurt anyone. He took the back roads, the undemanding silence slowly easing the knot of thought and blame and anger and grief and doubt that racked him. 

Night fell. Sometime in the last hours, one state melded into another then another. The terrain changed to high desert, thin and brisk with winter. He chased the uninterrupted view of the horizon line, far in the distance, watching the sun melt below the road, watching the colors of fire erupt across the low sky like a hunter’s pyre before the claim of darkness. The high moon lit the clear night and bathed the desert in half light, shadow and darkness beyond the reach of the headlights, and he kept going, wondering if he would ever find the line where the road ended and met the sky’s embrace.

******

Eventually he was forced to stop, checking in at the first motel in the phone book, the habit of years too hard to break. In the back of his mind sat the tiny niggle of hope or doubt or despair or some mix of all three, the same niggle that had prompted him to put his cell phone in his pocket. He thumbed it on now, the blank screen a comfort and a disappointment. Clicking it off with a snap, he went out to get something to eat.

Too soon the business of necessities were taken care of. His teeth were brushed and flossed. He went through his daily rituals, checking his weapons and securing the room. He looked at the blank screen of his phone again, and scrolled idly down his contact list, imagining conversations. “Oh, hey, this is Sam Winchester. Have you seen Dean? Please don’t hurt him. He’s a demon now.” Or maybe he should be warning them instead. “Hey, this is Sam Winchester. If you see Dean, you might want to run. He’s a Knight of Hell now.”

The motel room felt cavernous and hollow as he sat on the edge of the bed. Determinedly he lay down on the coverlet and closed his eyes. Maybe he would start over. Maybe he would go do the things he’d always wanted to do.

He tried counting backwards from 100. A sense of self-preservation said he had to sleep, no matter how much his brain objected to it. He would decide what to do next, later, in the moment after waking. 

******

Cas was sitting on the bed next to him when he came to the next morning, staring at him fixedly. Grief and a depth of despair wreathed him, even though outwardly Cas simply sat, hands folded in his lap, his trench coat wrinkled around him.

“Holy sh…! Cas! Dammit!” Sam shouted in surprise as he sat bolt upright in bed, Beretta in hand.

“Sam.”

The single word sank into the carpet. Castiel hadn’t moved, but it seemed Cas drooped even further, as if he had phantom wings that dispiritedly fluttered and dragged, weighted by the very air. Sam scrambled in his mind to remember—what Cas knew, how he knew, and came up with nothing. 

“Cas?”

“Sam.” Cas replied slowly. Even more slowly, “I am sorry I was not able to come earlier.”

Sam squinted. Had Cas heard Dean pray to him after all? Gotten Dean’s calls and ignored them because Dean was a demon now?

“I am sorry for your loss.”

The formality and intonation of the words snapped him up sharp. Cas thought Dean was dead? 

“Uh, Cas?”

Cas turned to him dully. Sam stalled.

“What happened in Heaven?”

“It was a trap. Gadreel committed suicide in an attempt to free us. Metatron made a mistake of arrogance that was his own undoing.” Cas paused. “He said he had killed Dean.”

“Cas.”

“And somehow I cannot sense Dean’s soul.”

“Cas.”

Cas drooped suddenly, worn and bowed. Sam started backwards at the unexpectedly emotional gesture, almost reaching for the holy water to make sure it was their Cas, sitting there.

“I only found you because you prayed.”

Sam tried to remember exactly what thoughts flitted through his mind somewhere between the numbers 92 and 33, but there were too many. One of them must have been a half-formed call to Castiel, rusty and uncoordinated, that had found wings and drifted to him anyway.

And now Cas was here.

“Um. Cas.”

Castiel’s head came up, eyes locking on him with forlorn attention. “Yes, Sam?”

“Dean’s not dead. Well. Sort of not dead.”

Castiel sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean, not dead?”

“I, uh, made a deal.”

“Sam.”

“There’s something else.”

Cas was now frowning at him, as if he could pull the words out by sheer will.

“Dean’s a demon.”

Cas didn’t move.

“Did you hear me, Cas? I said Dean’s a …”

“Demon. Yes, Sam. That is not possible.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“No. You can’t deal away someone else’s soul.”

“What?”

“Souls are one of a kind. They can only belong to themselves. You shouldn’t have been able to deal away Dean’s.” Cas’ eyebrows pulled together. “The demon was Dean? Not a demon possessing his body?”

“I. I don’t know.” The mannerisms, the attitude, if it wasn’t Dean, then it was a hell of an act. He grimaced, wanting to hope, but afraid to. “Crowley specifically said not to exorcise it. Him. Dean. It. Something about the Mark of Cain.”

Cas’ snapped upright and stood. “The Mark.”

“There’s a legend.” Cas frowned as if the information he was reaching for kept skittering out of his grasp. He paced across the room and stared upwards out the window. “Sam, I’m going to need a ride.”

“Um, Cas? Didn’t you get your wings back?”

“No.” A perturbed look crossed Cas’ face before he dismissed whatever it was.

“Then how did you get here?”

“Hannah ‘sent’ me. The grace I have, Theo’s grace.” Cas’ voice dropped awkwardly. “Is burning out. It won’t last forever.” Cas shook himself, casting off the thought before he stood up straighter. “But it should last long enough.”


	7. Stranglehold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Ted Nugent

“Really, Dean. I expected more of you. More mayhem! More chaos!"

Crowley caught up with him at the Montana border. The King of Hell was standing just outside the demon’s trap he had drawn around himself in the abandoned cabin, as far out into the sticks as he could get without going to Canada. 

“Crowley.”

“That’s Sire to you, Laverne. Lose your Moose?”

He didn’t bother replying.

Crowley kicked a scratch through the outermost circle of the trap. Instantly, the feeling of being tethered to the earth lifted and he had to stop himself from involuntarily shaking off the invisible shackles. Crowley made an odd gravelly cluck like a chain smoking mother hen. “Where’s your sense of fun? After all, you didn’t forget to bring your favorite chew toy.”

Dean barely stopped his hand from twitching towards the First Blade sitting just inside the outer edge of the trap. He turned his back on Crowley and stayed resolutely in place.

“I’ve got a job for you.”

“Like Hell."

“That’s the spirit. A little demon’s nest in need of kicking over. A couple of stragglers who haven’t seen the Return of the King.”

Silence.

“You’re itching to do it, Dean.”

He turned on Crowley then, the Blade coming to hand with a blur of speed that was dizzying, crossing the space between them in two strides until the tip of the jawbone was inches from Crowley’s throat. He grunted with effort, straining against the command that locked his muscles against his will as rigidly as the rigor of death. He scowled balefully at Crowley’s patiently waiting expression.

“Now, now. It’s just the one little job. You know what will happen if you don’t take care of things soon.”

“You said Cain was able to bear the Mark because he was a demon.” Dean accused.

“Technicalities. The Mark wouldn’t have killed him. He was already dead. I didn’t say he didn’t feel crap. Man’s had a few thousand years to learn to deal with it.”

He lunged for Crowley’s throat again without success.

Crowley’s voice was soft with his next words.

“You don’t want to wait until you don’t have control over what you kill, Squirrel.”

He looked at Crowley. A cold, flat stare that made Crowley turn up both hands in a “backing off now” gesture. Dean wasn’t angry about being double double crossed. Or the lies. Or the evasion. That was normal. He was angry about this, this illusion of caring.

“Fine.” He spat. “Show me where.”

******

"Sam."

Cas sounded like crap. Sam sat up hurriedly, bringing the phone to his ear.

"Cas. Where are you?"

"Outside."

"Oh. Okay, yeah. Hang on."

He took the steps in two, and unlocked the bunker’s doors to find that Cas looked as ragged as he sounded. Dark shadows were under Cas’ eyes, and he walked slowly down the stairs as though he didn't entirely trust his legs to obey, then sat down in the first chair he came to.

"Cas, you okay?"

"No." 

"What happened?"

Castiel heaved a sigh.

“They asked me to leave.”

“Leave? Leave where?”

“Heaven.”

Sam eyed him and waited for further explanation. Cas turned to him, an unexpected humanity to his expression, and made an aborted gesture of futility.

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

Great. It was going to be one of Cas’ cryptic days.

“Maybe I was just fooling myself. I just wanted to be useful again. To make things right.”

“Cas.” He began, not really knowing where to start with the angel counseling. That was usually Dean’s department.

“Telling myself that the ends would justify the means. Instead, heaven is locked and my brethren cannot even bear to look at me. They see…”

And here Castiel stopped, choked up. It was freaky to watch. Even when Cas had been human, he’d not been so… emo. Sam tried to remember where the Kleenex was, if they had any, but Cas straightened, squaring his shoulders with more resolution than heart.

“I’m sorry. Theo can be very…emotional.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, because, _no kidding_.

Cas looked tired as he continued.

“It doesn’t change the fact I am an abomination. A disgrace.”

“Cas.”

“I stole another angel’s grace, Sam. I used one of my own, as a _power-up._ ”

“They would have done the same, or worse, to you.” He pointed out. “Both Bartholomew and Malakai would have killed you without thinking twice, Cas, and you know it. You had to do something.”

The answering laughter was bitter. “Yes. And look where it got us. Angels still killing angels, bickering endlessly about which angels are _good enough_ to bring back to heaven. Souls stuck in the veil, denied their rest and reward.”

“So that’s still going on?”

“I am afraid so. Metatron’s spell remains in effect for them.” Pause. “I couldn’t find Dean’s soul in the Veil.”

Sam nodded. He wanted to be surprised, but he wasn’t. Not really.

“There’s more. There’s a legend that when Lucifer made the deal with Cain to trade his soul in Heaven for Abel’s soul in Hell, the will of Cain’s soul was so strong that Lucifer was afraid killing Abel wouldn’t be enough. To make sure Cain’s soul would fall down into Hell, Lucifer branded Cain with the Mark, to stake his claim.”

“Cas--what do you mean?”

“The Mark is Lucifer’s brand, Sam. It’s a claim of ownership. When Cain gave it to Dean, he made him one of them. A Knight of Hell. You didn’t make Dean a demon. Cain did.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. _That_ was why Crowley had been so careful with his wording. There had never been a deal, because Crowley had done _nothing_.

He turned abruptly on his heel and headed down to the storage room to summon the King of Hell. Again.

******

“Castiel. You look…unwell.” Crowley gave Cas a keen once over. “Your attachment to … the boys is legendary, but shouldn’t you be helping your crew with…the other thing?”

Cas stared Crowley down.

"You led Dean to Cain."

"I arranged things." Crowley said carefully. "Like a blind date. Tinder. Dean accepted the Mark of his own free will."

Sam scoffed and reached for the jug of holy oil on the table.

“Now let’s not be hasty, Moose. Be honest—it felt good for a moment there finally to be able to make the grand noble sacrifice for your brother, didn’t it? A little? No?”

With great deliberation, Sam curled his fingers around the neck of the jug.

“Tell us how to undo it.”

"Can't, mate. I really do mean it's not my doing. Take it up with the original owner of the Mark if you must. "

"Then tell us how to find him."

Crowley shook his head.

“Not an experience I recommend. The Father of Murder? The spell to find the First Blade won’t work since he’s lost the hot tat. Plus, not exactly someone you pay an afternoon call on for the fun of it.” He slid a sly look at Castiel. “In your current state, you’ll be fish fry before you could say boo. Demons are one thing, but fallen angels? That man can hold a grudge.”

Cas’ attention sharpened. “Cain is still a man, then?”

Crowley smiled thinly. “Still looking for that sliver of hope, Castiel? Tell you what. I’m feeling generous. I‘ll make you a deal.”

“As if I would fall for that again.”

“Well. Can’t blame a fellow for trying. Enemy of my enemy is my friend and all.”

“We’ll never be friends, Crowley.”

“So say you now, Shirley. You may look down on us, but your lot will come around soon enough once they finally realize what all they’re up against.”

Sam stared, and finally loosened his grip on the earthenware jug. “What are you talking about?”

“The 24/7 angel melee? No? Really ought to poke your head up out of this hole now and again, Moose. That world you boys keep trying to save might not be there when you finally do.”


	8. Renegade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Styx.

The spell for the First Blade may not have worked on Cain, but it worked just fine on Dean.

It wasn’t easy, tracking a moving target. And Dean was moving around. A lot.

Sam waved his hand in front of his face to brush away the smoke, and peered cautiously at the still smoking bit of map left on the table.

“West Virginia.”

Cas leaned in, studying what was left of their last gas station purchase. They bought entire stacks of continental US maps whenever they found them, because Dean was zigzagging randomly across the states, no pattern that Sam could make out, except he was covering distances with a speed that was distinctly inhuman.

Teleporting.

Sam shut down his mind, and tried not think about it. His brother, the demon, doing who knew what out in the world.

“Thurmond.” Cas reported, his nose an inch away from the charred paper. Cas looked up. “It’s not far. We might catch him if we hurry.”

******

Cas was out of the car before he’d even pulled to a stop. Sam scrambled, grabbing his kit out of the back seat of the Dart, banging into the door jamb in his haste.

“Cas, what the hell?” He said in between breathing, catching up to Cas.

A scream cut the air, enraged.

“Wendigo.” Cas said shortly.

Sam ran faster.

******

The stairs of the old coal depot creaked when they climbed them. The creaky staircase wrapped dizzying around the outside of the building, and he felt horribly exposed against the weathered concrete, aware that it was a four story drop to the ground. It was an odd place for a wendigo to be, just here on the outskirts of the mostly abandoned town. From what he remembered of the lore, he thought Wendigos stuck mostly to the woods.

Cas held up a hand for him to stop as he reached the top step. There was a narrow doorway cut into the wall, and Cas edged up to it cautiously.

Before he could say anything, or maybe catch up to Cas so they could make a plan, Cas slipped inside.

Sam swore under his breath and followed.

At first all he could see was shadows. The doorway opened onto a kind of mezzanine level, with wide wood planks for flooring. A short set of stairs led down to a lower third story below them, stripped now of the machinery that was once there, save the heavy rusted chain that dropped down through a hole in the floor to somewhere down below. And caught in that chain, was the piteously shrieking Wendigo, Dean bending over it, one hand effortlessly on its throat. The Wendigo flailed, long arms and legs thrashing madly, but Dean didn’t even budge. Dean’s hand tightened around the Wendigo’s throat as the seven-foot creature tried to claw at Dean’s arms.

What the hell was Dean doing? He knew the lore. You couldn’t kill a Wendigo by strangulation. The only way to kill a Wendigo was by fire. Strangling it would do nothing.

Sam took one step forward, ignoring Cas’ hand of caution on his arm.

Dean looked up.

A flash of green then back to black, and Sam hauled in a breath. _Demon._ Demon eyes, and the First Blade in his brother’s hand, the Mark of Cain glowing red hot beneath his sleeve, and was this what Dean had been doing all this time?

Hunting?

Dean’s fingers dug mercilessly into the Wendigo’s throat. The Wendigo’s eyes bulged out. The expression on Dean’s face was cold. His brother watched the Wendigo coolly, waiting, waiting like he’d always done, whenever they had some junior demon tied up in a devil’s trap, one slice with Ruby’s knife after another, because they needed information. He’d sat back and let Dean handle it, because Dean was _good_ at it. In the back of his mind he’d always chalked it up to Dean’s years in Hell, maybe to Alastair’s tutelage, but it had never been _Dean._

Sam huffed, his breath a puff of mist in the cold air. He took another step, drawing the demon’s eye again, one quick glance up at him, at Cas behind him, before the demon raised the First Blade in the air and plunged it deep into the Wendigo’s chest.

Fire erupted from the wound, and Sam sucked in another breath. Dean had _known._ Remembered that fire was the only way to kill a Wendigo—or known that the First Blade would kill anything, and all that, all that toying with the wendigo like a cat with a mouse, all that was just for _kicks._

Involuntarily his hand went around to his back for the .38.

The demon spun around, First Blade lowered.

Cas stepped forward. “Stop.”

The demon smiled coldly, rotating the First Blade in its hand, focusing in on Cas.

“Dean.” He stepped up next to Cas, and held out both of his hands, open and empty. No threat.

The demon glanced at him, eyes black to green and black again, before fixing back on Cas. 

Sam took another step, until he was at the edge of the railing.

“Dean.” He said again. “Let it go. Let go of the First Blade.”

Demon eyes riveted back towards him, and Dean snarled, hand closing tighter on the old jawbone and backing up a step.

“We’re not going to hurt you, Dean. But you’ve got to let go of the First Blade. The Blade and the Mark, that’s what’s doing this to you.”

Liquid blackness looked at him. Searched his face. Searched for the lies beneath his sincerity, and maybe there were some, because Dean backed up further, the point of the First Blade swinging low with intent.

“Dean, _please._ ”

His voice tore on the word, because he couldn’t deal with what came next. Saving people, hunting _things,_ that echo of Dad’s voice in his head, no room for doubt, no room for hesitation. Shoot first, Sammy. Ask questions later. Except this wasn’t a _thing._ This was Dean. Somewhere in there, this had to be still _Dean_.

Dean’s hand quivered, eyes still fixed on his face. A flash of green, black, then green before Dean shuddered, a hard, full-body shudder as Dean closed his eyes and went down to his knees, the First Blade dropping to the floor as Dean gasped, and gasped again, hauling in great big gulps of air like he was starved for it, like he hadn’t breathed in weeks.

“Sammy?”

He was running down the short flight of stairs in the next heartbeat, kicking up decades old coal dust in his haste to get an arm under Dean’s shoulder, before Dean pitched over completely.

“Hey, hey. Hey. I got you. I got you.” The familiar cadence of the words flowed soothingly over them both, knitting a thing which had been broken. “I got you.”

“Dean.” Cas’ gravelly voice echoed in the empty room.

Dean jerked back. Sam almost lost his grip on him. Quick as a flash, he clamped the cuff he had prepared on it. Dean’s head whipped around with a growl around at the feel of cold iron on his wrist, the symbols etched onto the handcuff preventing his escape by any supernatural means. He wasn’t ready when Dean pulled on his end of the cuff, full on demon strength behind it, and he hissed when the iron slipped from his grip, only managing to slam the cuff closed at the last second. He hissed again, in pain this time, when Dean banged him on the elbow with the solid metal shackle, ducking around him, trying to get behind him, trying to get away… from Cas?

“I’m not going to smite you, Dean.” Cas said sadly.

There was a snort behind him. Sam resisted the urge to turn and thump Dean on the head.

“No. You don’t look any different to me.” Cas replied out of the blue. 

Sam half turned around at that and gave Dean the stink-eye he deserved. “Really? This is what you’re worried about? How you _look_?”

Angels and the insane—they saw past the meatsuit a demon wore—and he didn’t know if Dean was black smoke or a three-headed monster beneath his skin—but that was the _least_ of their problems.

Dean’s hands made a faint, abortive move towards his hair.

“None of us are entirely ourselves these days.” Cas said. “Well, except Sam, for once.”

Sam winced, because yeah, tact was not something Cas had mastered.

“We’re a mess.” Dean retorted.

“Speak for yourself.” He shot back, then coughed, as smoke from the smouldering wendigo began to fill the room. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

******

Sam came looking for him _this_ time. 

Honestly, Dean wasn't sure how he felt about that. The cuff on his wrist hurt when he moved, like a tie to the earth being broken and reformed with every step, pulling off a little bit of skin each time. He grit his back teeth and said nothing, grateful it kept the other thoughts at bay. The thoughts whispered by the teeth of a dead ass, thoughts that saw only darkness wherever he looked. 

They had hustled him into a car. Not Cas' pimp-mobile, not Baby. Sam had chosen to bring the blue ’72 Dart Demon for reasons unknown, and his legs were cramped. Cas wound himself up into a little ball in the back uncomplainingly for the hours it took them to get back to the bunker. 

Now Cas was staring at him again, which wasn't exactly an abnormal pastime for Cas, but he was walking around Dean as he did it, inspecting and cataloging like he could see every drop of blood spilled and the gory details of every kill written on the plaid shirt he was wearing. It made him fidget when he didn't mean to. Had he his choice, he did not want Cas to see him at all, whatever the shape it was he had become to angel eyes. 

"Cas!" He barked. "Stop that. You're freaking me out."

Cas made a thoughtful humming noise, reversed the direction he was walking in, and circled him again.

"CAS!" He barked louder this time. Seeing that Cas was not going to stop, Dean broke from where he stood and sat his ass down in one of the library’s chairs.

Cas stopped and looked at him, gathering his breath to say something. His look wasn't good. Dean wanted it over with, especially with Sam hovering. "What?!"

Cas pursed his lips in an un-Castiel like gesture. "You're not human."

"Well, no duh, Captain Obvious." Frustrated, he shook the shackle in Castiel's direction, ignoring the little ripple of pain that went with the motion. "You wouldn't need this if I were."

"Dean," Sam started in reprovingly. He was doing that a lot.

Cas ignored both of them and continued, tilting his head to one side as if he could see better sideways. "You're not entirely a demon, either."

"WHAT?!" That came from both he and Sam simultaneously.

Cas looked entirely unmoved by the bombshell he’d just dropped. 

Dean inventoried himself. Black eyes? Check. Ability to teleport? Check. Got stuck in a devil's trap? Check. He figured it was unnecessary to test himself with holy water, because, well, he knew what the outcome of that was going to be, so why bother? It's not like Sam had any doubts as to the conclusion of that either. He looked skeptically at Cas. Maybe Cas' angel mojo was slipping.

"Cain." Cas said, looking intent. "What was he doing when you saw him?"

"Keeping bees. Serving tea. Eating corn. Slaughtering a whole mass of demons with this light." Dean recalled. He wasn't sure where Cas was going with this. 

"And you told Sam he set down the First Blade for this woman. Colette."

"Yeah. So?" He stared at Cas. "What are you suggesting? That we can fix all this with some True Love’s Kiss? That’s just a fairy tale."

"Fairies are real.” Cas replied absently. “But more importantly, a demon isn't human--doesn't have human feelings. Human needs. Cain was never injected with purified blood. He shouldn't be acting like he is."

"Wait." Sam was leaning forward now, a too-eager-for-good-news expression plastered all over his face. "You think Cain is still partly human?"

Dean snorted. "He's a gazillion years old. How is that human? "

"At least part of his soul is." Cas paused, brows creasing as he tried to work something out. "His exact words, Dean, when he gave you the Mark?"

"The Mark is a great burden. Some may say it comes at a great cost. Yada yada."

"A burden." Cas said. "Yes." 

Cas fell silent, staring into space. A couple minutes went by.

"Uh, Cas?" Sam asked tentatively. 

Castiel walked around him again, staring hard enough to drill holes through his skull.

"Sacrifice." Cas blurted out the single word and went back to thinking. 

"Whole sentences, Cas." Dean prompted.

"When Cain agreed to deal with Lucifer to save Abel's soul, it was an act of sacrifice. For centuries, Lucifer’s Mark has weighted him down." Cas held up a hand as both him and Sam started to interrupt. "The more he killed, the stronger the Mark grew, weaving ever more threads of darkness into his soul. But the original sacrifice remained pure. That's how there was enough of his soul left he could make a choice to stop killing."

Sam breathed. “This means you can still fight it.”

It was too much like hope. Dean felt it fluttering in his chest with the earnest-we-can-conquer-anything on Sam's face. He stood abruptly. 

"Yeah. But I didn't make any sacrifices. I just wanted to off Abaddon." He kept his voice curt to discourage the two of them.

"You choose to bear the burden." Castiel said gravely, undeterred. "I can still see you, Dean."

He blew out a breath at Cas’ statement. He didn't want Castiel to "see" him. What he had become.

Sam launched in. "So, how do we get Dean's soul back and get rid of the Mark? I mean, you can bring him back, right, Cas?"

Cas paused, hesitating a moment before wiping the optimism off Sam's face. "I don't know if it can be done, Sam, unless he passes the Mark to someone else."

_No._ "No way."

"Even then," Cas continued, "I think you’d need to be a full Knight of Hell to do that.” Cas frowned. “You said the last time you saw Cain, he was eating corn."

"Yeah. Dude has weird ass timing for it, if you ask me."

"I think he does so because it reminds him of his human past. When was the last time you ate?"

Dean thought about it. And thought about it some more. The thought of food sat sourly in his stomach the more he lingered on it. Shaking himself to be rid of the feeling, he looked at Sam for help with a gesture, "I don't know. Maybe that dinner in Pasco?"

Sam blanched. "Dean, that was three weeks ago!"

"Oh." He shut up. Had it really been three weeks? He tried counting, but the sense of days passing eluded him, never mind weeks. 

Sam, however, was just getting started. "How? How are you able to keep going? Have you been sleeping?"

Dean looked upwards and sat back down. Sam could be a while. 

"You haven't been hunting the whole time, have you? I've been tracking you, and that doesn't add up. A couple jobs, yeah. But."

"There was some off the books clean-up stuff for Crowley." He said as mildly as he could.

"WHAT?!?!?!" Sam's voice hit the ceiling. 

He shrugged and waited for Sam to calm down. Eventually.

"Are you going where he tells you to go now??" Sam's voice was still pitched kind of high.

"I kind of, sense.” He made a distressingly new-agey gesture. “The bad stuff." 

Sam sputtered. Dean hoped he had run out of words, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't last. Cas just looked grim. 

"The Mark hasn’t completed its hold on you yet, Dean. The less you use the First Blade, the better." Cas said. 

He didn't move. It was unfortunate Sam knew him too well, because Sam fixed on him instantly.

"What?"

"Can't."

"Can't not use the First Blade?"

He waited a long time before making the admission. He didn't want to elaborate. Wasn't going to elaborate. 

Sam stared at him a long moment before deciding to let it go. 

"Fine." Sam said curtly. "So. Let's hunt."


	9. Too Daze Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Billy Squier.

The motel carpet was olive green mixed with a shady puke yellow, and Dean stayed away from those spots, because—well, you never really knew. The TV was new, at least, and free cable was always a good thing when all he could do was stay in the room and stew.

Sam was tapping away on his laptop at the rickety round table by the window, still dressed in his Fed suit, when suddenly he shuddered.

“What have you got?” He clicked the TV off. Back in the old days, he would’ve gone with Sam to the hospital for the scoop, but the three-inch iron cuff on his wrist was a bit hard to explain. He shook it surreptitiously by his side to settle it down.

Sam turned the screen of the laptop towards him. 

“Brain scans of the victims.” Sam declared. “This is why I don’t want to eat beef.”

The brain scans on the screen looked like gray Swiss cheese. Very holey Swiss cheese. Sam had a few hang-ups besides clowns. That year in the ‘90s when he went off burgers was a royal pain in the ass. He’d read about mad cow disease and for the whole next year, refused to eat any real food on the basis that some bug would eat his big brain. 

“Thing is, mad cow disease normally takes years to develop. These victims went from normal to this in _days_.” There was real horror in Sam’s voice. He gave the remains of their take-out meal the side-eye.

“I thought you said they couldn’t find anything the victims had in common, foodwise.”

“Yeah. That’s the weird thing. One of the vics was a vegetarian.”

Dean didn’t really have to say anything. He’d suffered a whole year of frikkin’ chicken chili for Sam’s paranoia, and righteousness was sweet.

Sam glowered at him.

Something dusty from the past tugged at his memory.

“You got Dad’s journal?”

Sam looked up in surprise. “Yeah, here.”

He crossed the room to the table, keeping his cuffed arm behind him. Turning pages with his left hand was awkward. He sat down, looking at the familiar pages crowded with Dad’s tiny scrawl. His hand stayed on an upturned page for a moment as memories flooded back of all the nights he’d watched John scribble his notes, brow furrowed in concentration and bent over a motel room table like this one. He felt Sam looking thoughtfully at the top of his head. Before Sam could say anything mope-y, he thumbed quickly through to the entry he remembered, and turned the journal back around towards Sam so Sam could read the entry for himself.

“Here. North Carolina, 1997. An outbreak of what was thought to be mad cow disease, but Dad didn’t agree. He thought it was an Aunt Nancy.”

Sam blanched and looked up. “People were eating Aunt Nancy?”

“No, dumbass. It wasn’t the food. Aunt Nancy, or Anansi—here,” He tapped on the block print image of a human sized spider clipped out of an old text and pasted onto the page, “—it’s thought to be a spider or spider like creature that steals wisdom. Sounds brain-sucky to me.”

“Wait. I thought I saw something at the edge of town.” Sam’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Here. Aunt Nancy’s Hair Salon.”

“Oh, c’mon. That’s way too easy. What kind of monster names a business after themselves?”

“It’s worth checking out, isn’t it?”

******

Hunting took them a bunch of places they wouldn’t normally have gone, but Aunt Nancy’s Hair Salon had to be in a category all its own. The place was…pink. Dean had “dated” enough to know that pink was a thing, and sometimes bedrooms were surprising places, décor-wise, but by then he usually had his mind on other things. Aunt Nancy took pink to new extremes. Kindly put, it looked like a bottle of Pepto had exploded, right down over the “Monthly Special” promo to dye your hair a neon shade of it. Bubble gum pink vinyl chairs lined both sides of the room, leading to a back room where a row of helmet-styled hair dryers sat over more pink chairs like a line of Barbie torture instruments. Dean ran one hand over his hair protectively, looking at the various Strawberry Shortcake dos depicted on the walls. He had to wonder, if this was the Anansi’s lair, whether people got their hair done here before or _after_ they got their brains Swiss-cheesed.

“Dean!” Sam’s urgent whisper came from the back room. Sam was standing next to the row of hairdryers and peering up into one of the funky helmets.

Speaking of things that looked brain sucky…

A small electrical zap hit Sam on the nose.

Sam jerked up, bumping his head in the process. “Ow. What was that?”

Dean crossed the room and pulled Sam back. “Lemme see.”

Leaning in, he peered up into the hairdryer just as Sam had done. Nothing sparked, and nothing seemed out of place. He tapped on the metal portion of the dome.

A flurry of scratching noises that sounded like little feet scampering came from inside the unit. He rocked the conical helmet slightly, frowning as the scratching grew more frantic.

“You hear that?”

Sam shook his head.

He tapped on the metal once more. The noise came again, scuttling away from where his finger was hitting the metal.

He gestured to Sam to go look for a tool so he could pry open the cover. He heard Sam rummaging around, then Sam put a nail file in his hand.

“Really?”

Sam shrugged helplessly. “When in Rome.”

The cover came off with a pop. It was looser than he had thought it was going to be. As he lifted one corner, the scratching noises increased, this time moving towards the thin slit where he had cracked it open.

“Watch out!”

His warning was a second too late. A flood of teeny tiny spiders spilled out of the crack, streaming out of the dryer towards Sam, crawling up Sam’s legs and towards Sam’s head. Sam tried batting them off, but there were too many of them, and more kept coming out.

Dean jammed the cover back on the hairdryer to stop the flow, but it was like a cork had been popped. More spiders kept flooding out of the hair dryer, a veritable river of tiny black bodies with tiny hairy legs, dropping like paratroopers from the dryer’s plastic rim onto the spider encrusted ground.

“Dean!”

He turned towards Sam’s hoarse yell. The little buggers were swarming up Sam’s neck, and when they settled on his head, tiny sparks came shooting out of their mouths onto his scalp. Sam went down to his knees, hands flailing in vain at the creatures crawling up his arms. His eyes looked glazed.

Dean dropped the dryer in his hands. He was by Sam’s side in two steps, brushing the spiders off Sam’s head with quick, efficient strokes. He gave Sam a shake.

“Sammy!”

Sam blinked like he was waking up.

“Dean?”

The flood of spiders kept coming, making a beeline for Sam’s brainiac brain.

“There’s too many!” He shouted. He gave Sam’s shirt a final swipe. “You get out of here.”

“What? No! I’m not leaving you alone in here.”

Just then, Sam’s eyes widened, staring at something behind him. Dean turned around to look.

The thing he had thought was some kind of funky hair artwork hanging from the ceiling started to unfold into hairy arms. _Six_ hairy arms. The string attaching it to the ceiling started to lengthen as the giant hairy mass lowered itself to the floor. As it descended, two hairy legs uncurled and touched down on the ground, revealing a round body clad in a bright pink muumuu as the human-spider creature unwound itself to face them. White hair like spider silk was combed back from a smooth, ageless face, and the eyes set into that face were beady and black. Aunt Nancy beamed at them, a little drip of venom slipping down her fangs, eyeing Sam’s gonzo brain with a leer.

Dean stepped between them.

“Sam, GO!”

Sam’s face set stubbornly even as he frantically brushed the sparking, brain sucking spiders off his shoulders and out of his hair. _Dammit_. He couldn’t watch out for Sam and fight Spider-woman at the same time. He grasped Sam by the lapels, hefted all six foot four of him easily and shook hard, dropping all the little spiders off into the crawling puddle swirling around them. He headed towards the door, calculated a trajectory and physically tossed Sam out. It was for Sam’s own good.

He turned back towards Aunt Nancy. The little spiders went streaming to the corners of the room, searching for the exit. There were too many and Sam was still only a few feet outside.

Aunt Nancy chittered and made a motion towards the door. A stream of black dots flowed in that direction. Dean stomped furiously, but they eddied around his feet. A spitting noise that sounded like laughter came from the spider-woman’s throat. 

“We are legion. You cannot win.”

Dean stopped. He turned slowly to face her.

“Oh yeah?”

He could see now. There were thousands of them, seething in the crawlspace above the ceilings, teeming in the space between the walls, skittering down the conduits along the electrical wires. Tiny little teeth and furry little legs, each one a nascent form of the larger one that faced him. He needed to get them all.

He didn’t hear the clang of iron as his cuff fell to the floor. His smile was ice as Aunt Nancy stepped back with sudden realization, hissing violently at him in a panic and making screeching noises at her offspring. The spider stream heading to the door turned back, and made an ever-growing lake as they surrounded him. More spiders poured from the walls, crunching underneath his feet as he advanced.

He didn’t have to think about what he needed to do. The hilt of the First Blade fit perfectly in his grip as he grabbed Aunt Nancy by one of her six hands and struck.

******

He should have been used to this by now, getting tossed through things by creatures with super strength, except this time, the ‘creature’ was _Dean_. It wasn’t as if Dean was _careful_ about it either, because he landed on his ass in a sea of shattered windows, sharp jagged edges poking through his jeans and his jacket. Sam moved gingerly, trying to avoid the larger pieces, rolling his sleeves down to protect his hand as he cautiously sat up.

The air felt funny. He took a deep whiff, trying to clear the grogginess out of his brain. There was the chemical and perfume smell that was the hair salon, but there was something laying over it—a prickle in his nose, uneasy, like charged air preceding a thunderstorm. He could feel his hair trying to stand on end, and he was turning around to see if they were near any high voltage power lines, when a blast of air and blinding light blew out the remaining glass storefront of Aunt Nancy’s salon and knocked him flat on his back.

In a panic he rolled to protect his face then pushed himself off the ground, cutting his hands again. He scrambled to his feet, dusting off the worst of the glass carelessly against his jeans before he yanked the .38 out from behind him. His heart lodged in his throat as he faced the shattered storefront, now nothing but a ruin of warped metal frames. He squinted, trying to see into the gray darkness erratically illuminated by the dying flashes of the store’s neon “Closed” sign.

Cautiously he edged towards the door.

“DEAN!” He hissed.

There was no answer.

He pushed what was left of the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside. His foot sank down through a layer of something yielding; like sand, only larger, and weirdly crunchy. He looked down, and abruptly yanked his foot up in revulsion. He froze there awkwardly one-footed, like a demented lawn flamingo, while his eyes translated the dark fuzziness on the ground into what it was: a carpet of dead spiders, thousands of them, tiny legs stiff and upturned in the air. He gulped as he looked down the room, filled end to end with petrified death, here and there thick with mounds where the spiders had sheeted off the ceiling. Far down towards the rear of the salon, back where Aunt Nancy had descended, stood Dean, ankle deep in dead arachnids, the First Blade gleaming wetly with blood in his right hand.

Sam held his breath.

Dean looked slowly towards him.

Dark eyes. The demon.

In front of the demon was a collapsed mass of severed hairy limbs. The torso had fallen a few feet away, one leg attached, as if with its final limb the creature was still trying to flee.

Sam huffed. He tried not to, he did. Dad always told him he breathed too loud. He needed to let the air out quietly, like Dean.

_Control_ , _Sammy. You can’t let your emotions get the better of you in a hunt. You have to have control._

He huffed.

The demon’s black eyes looked over him, looked _into_ him, past the surface of his skin, burrowing deep and seeing something, something that made the First Blade quiver in Dean’s grip.

Sam held his breath.

The demon focused on his nose.

They stood there, facing each other for an eternity. With a gasp, and because he was starting to see stars, Sam gave in and gulped air. The demon gasped with him, the rasping of air strangely abrasive in the silence.

What the hell?

Was it mocking him?

He let out his breath slowly, trying desperately for control. 

The demon copied him.

Inhale. Exhale. Huff.

Night dark eyes continued to track the rise and fall of his chest with an eerie focus. With a start, Sam realized it was _Dean_. Dean, trying desperately to remember a human function the demon had no need of.

Sam let the air out of his lungs slowly, one long exhale, allowing the tension to ease out of his shoulders and carefully holstering the gun behind him. He breathed in, slowly and deeply like a yoga breath, ignoring the acrid smell of chemicals that burned down his airways. Dean copied him, breath for breath, watching him like he was a lifeline, until at last with a tremor Dean released the bloodied jawbone clutched tight in his hand, letting it fall with a muted clatter into the mass of carcasses around his feet, scattering the small black bodies in all directions.

As if everything had been taken out of him, Dean dropped down to his knees.

“Dean!”

Heedless of the gross crunching beneath his boots, Sam crossed the room and grabbed Dean by one arm, trying to steady him before Dean toppled over into the dead spider carpet, and flinched back in shock. Dean’s skin was icy cold to the touch, _dead, dead, dead man’s skin_ under his palm, and Sam grit his teeth against his natural reaction, kept his hand and his stomach in their respective places, and knelt down, steadying Dean’s weight against him. Dean started to shake, trembling from the cold, his teeth chattering hard enough to hear. 

Sam slipped one arm around Dean’s shivering shoulders.

"Hey. Hey. Hey. I got you. I’ve got you.”

Dean’s hand came up and gripped his arm tightly. He could hear Dean swallowing and swallowing, trying to keep down nausea. He grasped Dean more securely, trying to temper Dean’s more violent shivers. Slowly, too slowly, tepid warmth returned to Dean’s skin—as if by Dean’s will—and he wasn’t going to think about what all that meant. Not right now. The knees of his jeans were getting clammy, kneeling in squashed bug juice, and he really wanted to cough out the accumulated hairspray itching in his lungs, but he just stayed where he was and kept breathing, slowly and evenly, one arm wrapped firmly around his brother.

Finally the shakes stopped. Dean lifted his head, pulled away slightly and awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“This is still no excuse not to get a haircut.”

Startled, Sam huffed out a laugh.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go home?”

“Yeah.”

******

Dean eyed the cereal Sam clanked down in front of him dubiously, but obediently reached for the milk. As his sleeve pulled back, Sam saw the red welt around Dean’s wrist, bits of peeling skin dotted with a myriad of pinprick scabs, painful like the worst sunburn topped off with road rash. He snagged Dean’s arm, clamping down tight when Dean tried to pull away. It took him another half second to process the fact that the binding cuff was gone.

“Dean, what’s that?” he asked more sharply than he intended.

“It’s nothing.” Dean kept trying to pull his arm back, but he winced as the motion rubbed the soft fabric of his sleeve along his injured wrist.

“Is that from the cuff?”

“It fell off.”

“I don’t care about the cuff.” He pulled on Dean’s sleeve, hissing sharply when he saw that the rest of Dean’s wrist was just as bad everywhere the iron had rested against skin. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I.” Dean started, then stopped. “It wasn’t that bad.”

He leveled Dean with a stare.

Dean’s expression tightened. “It helped.”

“The cuff? Dean, we had cuffs on Crowley the whole time—it never did that to him.”

Dean scowled. “Maybe he fixed himself somehow. Maybe he’s got extra mojo. How would I know?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at him. “Crowley was never able to get the cuffs off, either.”

Dean’s attention snapped to him. “Huh.”

Not easily distracted, Sam went back to what he wanted to know. “How does the cuff help, Dean?”

Dean looked away, and focused on the rack of pans five feet behind his head. He could see Dean parsing language in his head, trying to see if he was going to be able to get around their ‘no secrets’ agreement.

“It helps keep the Mark in check.” He finally supplied.

“The urge to kill?”

Dean gave a brief nod, turning his head a fraction more away. There was something about the way Dean was cautiously not looking at him. He flashed back to the night before, when the demon had stared directly at him, rummaging in his soul with those infinitely dark eyes, and the faint quiver in its arm.

“Me.” He breathed out the word in a low rush. “It wants to kill me. That’s why you kept the cuff on.”

The chair clanked back as Dean stood up abruptly, pulling his arm out of his grasp. “Not just you, Sam.”

“Then, what?”

“Everything. Everyone. _All the gray things._ ” The last words came out in a harsh whisper unlike Dean’s normal speaking voice, a hiss of sound stringing the words together so alien Sam jumped back, hand going to the .38 automatically.

“Dean?”

He couldn’t see Dean’s eyes. Dean kept them directed at the floor. Dean’s hands twitched at his sides.

Sam slipped a finger slipped over the trigger.

It was a long sixty seconds before Dean bent down, flipped the chair upright, and sat himself back down. With exact motions, he pulled the bowl of corn flakes towards himself, then reached for the milk again. He poured in two splashes, recapped the milk with excruciating focus, and picked up his spoon.

Sam let his hand fall away from the gun. He mirrored Dean’s motions, filling his own cereal bowl halfway. He kept his eyes on the bowl, mechanically spooning tasteless food into his mouth. His hand trembled faintly as Dean’s raw wrist came into his field of view, and he had to blink hard to get himself to swallow.


	10. Holy Diver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Dio.

He didn’t know how he could have forgotten. From the first time Dad had placed the .22 in his hand, the drill had been: Count your shots. Know your ammo.

It was not so difficult with a six shot revolver, but as he graduated to using the semi-autos with a limited number of special bullets, Dad had kept on it. Ask and answer. Recite and repeat.

“ _How many bullets left, Dean?”_

_“Nine.”_

_“How many silver?”_

_” Three.”_

_“How many in the Beretta?”_

_“Twelve.”_

_“That’s my man_.”

Count. Always count.

Without the muffling effects of the cuff, the First Blade whispered. He did not tell Sam he could hear it even when he wasn’t holding it, but he suspected Sam knew. His attention wandered when he looked at people, seeing the sin writhing inside them like black threadworms. More often than not, he came to himself finding Sam’s hand on his arm, whoever he had been talking to long gone, the residue of apology on Sam’s face before Sam turned to him with a reassuring smile pasted over a hidden sigh. 

Counting set boundaries. There was a stop and start to it. He started at one when he felt the Blade in his hand, and counted his swings. 1. Whack 2 Whack 3 Whack 4. The numbers were a reminder, a place to put your focus. 1 vampire 2 vampire 3 vampire 4. Stop when you run out of vampires.

Stop.

It was hard to come back. To breathe. To need air, to need food, to crave warmth. To feel the limits of human limbs, the aches of human muscles. It was hard to come back to needs. Why? He could stay, stay with the Blade in his hand, power coursing through his veins, conviction flooding through his mind. He could keep going, free from the shackles of human sight, doing what he was meant to do. 

They kept hunting, but they went after smaller game now. There were a lot of ghosts. Maybe that wasn’t surprising, given the state of the Veil. It was tedious digging and salting and burning, and he ended up letting Sam handle the salting and burning most of the time. He contented himself with terrorizing the crazed apparitions that retained enough sense to know when something really bad was after them. It wasn’t the same, but it was enough, apparently, to keep the Mark’s worst impulses at bay.

They hadn’t talked about what happened with the spider massacre in Barnwell. Sam was just—careful. Sam fielded the calls from other hunters, scanned the newspapers and the web, and meticulously steered them away from anything involving multiple bogeys of any kind. Surprisingly, just this once, Sam hadn’t gone into his usual must-understand-everything mode.

Guess there some things even Sam figured he was better off not knowing.

******

Sam’s cell phone rang once. Twice. Castiel.

He picked up the phone hurriedly and thumbed to accept the call. “Cas?”

There was nothing. A hard metallic clank banged against his ear and he jerked the phone to arm’s length. Sounds of scuffling followed, then the faint but distinct thuds of blows landing on a body.

“CAS!”

The crunching noise of footsteps on gravel.

“Well. If it isn’t Sam Winchester.”

The voice was foreign to him. Dean crowded around, a concentrated frown creasing his brow. Sam put the phone on speaker before he answered.

“Who is this?”

Sounds of a struggle drifted across the line from the background.

“What have you done with Cas?”

“Oh, nothing. Yet. Castiel is just going to help us with a little something. Aren’t you, _brother_? Or should I say, half-brother? What exactly are you now, Castiel?”

There was another thud followed by a groan, and a weak growl. “I’ve told you, Arkas. I. Don’t. Know.”

“CAS!!”

Dean grabbed the phone out of his hand.

“What do you want?”

The speaker on the other end paused. “Dean Winchester. My. So the rumors are true. The righteous man bears the Mark of Cain.”

“Listen, douchebag.”

“Well now. This makes things interesting.”

“Let him go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, old son. I have my orders.”

“Orders from who? To do what?”

“Now why would I tell you, _demon_?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. Sam stayed quiet.

“What do you want?”

“Who says I want anything?”

“You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t.” Dean snapped.

“Touché.” A considering pause came over the line. “Your little buddy, Crowley.”

Sam was taken aback. What?

Dean didn’t even blink. “What about Crowley?”

“Surely you must have thought the world would be a better place without him.”

Dean held the phone away from him, thinking.

“You can do it now, you know. Easy peasy. We can put an end to Hell.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Weren’t you boys trying to close the gates of Hell? Maybe stop souls from ever having to go there again?”

Sam inhaled, remembering what Crowley had said about an angel melee and the world outside changing. He shook his head at Dean, signaling caution. They needed more information about what the hell was going on out there, badly.

_Coordinates_ , Dean mouthed the word silently, and made the gesture for him to try and GPS the location of Castiel’s cell.

“Well?” Came over the phone, silky and expectant.

“Why don’t you take care of Crowley yourself if it’s so easy?” Dean stalled.

There was a dry laugh. “That little punk demon is a slippery bastard. But you. You he trusts.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot straight up. “That’s your gambit? Take out someone because they trust me?”

“That _is_ what you do, isn’t it, Dean? Hasn’t it happened to everyone around you?”

Dean snarled, his eyes flashing completely to black.

“Think about it, _Knight_. How is a two-bit crossroads demon the King of Hell? What’s giving him his power? It’s certainly not his charming personality.”

“Why would I do anything for you?”

Sam shot Dean a look. Was he actually considering it? Dean’s eyes were still black and staring at the bookcase on the far wall.

“Oh, don’t. Do it for you BFF here. Bring me the keys, Dean. Then you can have whatever’s left of Castiel back.”

******

“Dean, just how is Crowley able to control you?”

It figured Sam had to ask. Dean had been trying not to think about it, as if the situation wasn’t complicated enough. Who the hell was this Arkas dude? What the hell did he want? To top it all off, if they couldn’t ask Cas—what was left of their contacts, angel-wise, was pretty damned limited.

Oh, wait, that’s right. They didn’t have ANY.

The douchebags sitting pretty on their feathery asses in Heaven had kicked Cas out—after all he had done—for not being one of _them_. Did it matter that much that the grace-stealing was a little iffy? Like they would have done different. And now there were these new dickwads, whoever they were, on the scene. An even douchey-er species of angel, if such a thing was even possible.

Fuck.

He was reluctant to contact Crowley. There was a whole road there he didn’t want to go down, shades of wrong and less wrong again, confusing as heck. He didn’t know how Crowley pulled off the whole puppet-master trick. Arkas was wrong. Crowley trusted nobody. Hell, the bastard probably thought his own shadow would double-cross him at the first opportunity, and he was probably right.

Sam was talking again. Dean took his eyes off the road for a second, and looked over at Sam, worrying at the dot on the phone that marked Cas’ last known. 

“Technically, you should be a Knight of Hell, maybe even more powerful than Abaddon, since you have the Mark.”

Sam had the good grace to sound ambivalent about that. Dean pursed his lips. More powerful than Abaddon had its upsides and downsides. Fun as it would be to be able to give Crowley a taste of his own medicine, Cain hadn’t been lying when he said it felt _so good_ to have the First Blade in his hand again. The power was … something. He could just taste it now, grab it, and go. Follow the pull of the current and go.

He almost did. The path that way was beautifully clear, uncluttered with hazy human decisions. He would have vanished right out of the driver’s seat of the Impala, leaving it to crash into traffic with Sam in it, unaware his fate hung on the knife-edge of Dean’s concentration. He tried to pull his mind back, back into the mire of complexity by focusing on Sam’s voice. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“And what keys is Arkas talking about?”

Dean shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

“Maybe we should just…”

“No.” He cut Sam off before Sam could get the suggestion out. He didn’t want to explain the thing that Sam should, with his big brain, be able to see. If he took Crowley out, who was the most powerful demon of them all? That’s right. And he would do it, do it and go on a killing spree through the bowels of earth’s rat infested dungeon, give the place a good scrub over and burn everything clean away until it was shiny and new again. And it wouldn’t be clean enough, if more souls kept flooding in from topside. He would have to get rid of the source, pull everything out by the roots, so he might as well start here, start now, right now.

The car lurched. The bumping action of the wheels rolling over the lane markers and Sam’s sharp “Dean!” pulled him back to the present. Fabric brushed the fingertips of his right hand, reaching into his jacket for the First Blade.

With a shock he pulled back, hand on the wheel again, guiding the Impala back to the dead center of the lane. He stole a look aside at Sam, to find Sam looking at him narrow-eyed. He was in for it now.

“What was that?”

Dean pushed his lips together, hoping the conversation would go away.

“Dean.”

Damn. Sam wasn’t going to let it go.

“Dean.”

“I can’t, Sam. Okay?”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t off Crowley.” God, he felt dirty saying that.

Sam blinked, halfway between startled and shocked. Sam moved straight on to outrage. “What?!”

He gave Sam’s big brain a kick. “I don’t want to rule Hell.”

That stopped Sam cold. “Why would you…”

“Who’s top of the pyramid after Crowley, Sam? Me. Who are the demons afraid of? _Me_.”

He was practically spitting the words out. Some things Sam didn’t know—he hadn’t been there when he’d run those jobs for Crowley. He hadn’t seen the utter fear in the eyes of the nightmares when they saw him coming. He hadn’t seen Dean reflected in the liquid blackness of demon eyes, First Blade poised above their heads, face taut and grim, lost to the darkness, lost to the perfection of what he was meant to do. Becoming the epitome of all the things they hunted.

Sam didn’t know. Sam only saw his brother. The hope and shadow of Dean’s soul, clinging on by his fingertips to this body and form.

He reined in his frustration and tried again. “I can’t do it, Sam. What comes next…”

His voice trailed off. Sam hushed, glimpsing, perhaps, the things he left unsaid. Sam’s brows drew together tightly, turning the problem over in his mind.

“All right. We’ll find another way.”

******

Hannah was waiting for them on the gravel path. She held Castiel’s cell phone in one hand, and she looked worn for an angel. Two others flanked her, and they had their angel blades out.

“Day late and a dollar short, aren’t you, sister?” The First Blade was in Dean’s hand as he spoke. Sam’s footsteps scrambled frantically behind him as he advanced on the angel who had kicked Cas out of Heaven.

“We’re not here to hurt you, Dean Winchester. We need your help.”

“That’s rich. Thought you guys didn’t need anyone now that you’ve got your wings back.”

They were bright to look at with his demon sight. Contained and controlled in their vessels, the light of their grace did not burn, but it was _bright_. He squinted but kept his eyes on them defiantly. Sam’s hand landed on his arm, pulling him to a stop and restraining.

“What do you want?” Sam moderated, his tone frosty.

“We never meant for Castiel to get hurt. We just wanted him to live out his human life in peace.”

“Well, bang up job on that. In what universe did you imagine the dickwads you left down here were going to leave him alone?”

“We miscalculated in the heat of the moment.” The admission was slow in coming. “He made many of us…uncomfortable.”

“You were wondering whose grace he might steal next.”

The stocky fellow to her right bristled. “Can you blame us?”

Hannah put out a hand and her grumpy lieutenant subsided. “We need you to get him back for us.”

“Why?” Dean scoffed disbelievingly. “So you can kick him some more while he’s down?”

“There are things happening you don’t understand. Castiel is irreplaceable. We need him if Heaven is to survive.”

“Why don’t you get him back yourselves?” Sam’s voice was heavy with suspicion.

Hannah hesitated. “You have to understand. The ones that took Castiel are…different. They don’t follow the rules. There are too few of us, and we have lost too many trying to hold the portal to Heaven. We cannot afford to lose any more. _They_ cannot be allowed in.”

“I don’t understand. Why can’t you just let the other angels back in to help you?” Damn it if Sam wasn’t genuinely curious.

The hesitation turned into a full stop. Hannah looked to her right and left at the other two before she continued.

“We don’t know who to trust. One wrong move, and we will all be dead. The power of Heaven will be in the hands of the Fallen, and trust me, you do not want that.”

Dean frowned, letting the First Blade drop to his side. “The who?”

“The Fallen. The others who took part in the rebellion. They were safely locked up in Heaven’s prison until…”

“Metatron’s spell.” Sam finished for her. “How come we’re just hearing about them now, if they’re so powerful?”

“You have. Gadreel was one of them.”

Sam’s breath hissed out. “He wasn’t all bad, in the end.”

“No. Misguided. He sought redemption at the last. ” Hannah’s look was sharp. “Don’t be misled, Sam. The rest are not like him. What they are after, you do not want.”

“What are they after?”

“Besides power?” Hannah’s lips tightened grimly before her next words. “To empty Heaven. They want to empty Heaven.”

******

“You get the feeling she’s not telling us something?”

Dean slanted a look in his direction. “Something? Try a whole lot of something.”

Sam made a puff that passed for agreement. “What I don’t get, is that they’re afraid. Genuinely afraid. I haven’t seen an angel that scared of another one since…”

“Raphael.” Dean finished for him.

They lapsed into silence, letting the purr of the engine take the place of conversation. Sam drove with one hand on the wheel, his other tapping an absent pattern on his thigh as he tried to think his way through everything they had just learned.

“Can they even do that?” he finally burst out.

“Do what?”

“Empty heaven of the souls up there.”

“Hannah seems to think so. Don’t see why she would be so freaked unless it was true.”

“What would they do with them?”

Dean shrugged. “Friggin’ angels. Who knows? Swallow them all like Cas did when he tried to chow down on purgatory?”

Sam looked over at Dean, horrified.

“Dean, there’s millions of souls in Heaven.”

“Yeah, well. That didn’t work out so well for Cas when he tried it. You’d think they’d have learned.”

Sam took the next exit off the freeway, focusing on downshifting and guiding the car along the curve to the right, the driving a soothing distraction. Hannah had given them a location in Geary where they thought Castiel had been taken, as near as the angels could tell.

“You think it’s a trap?”

“Of course it’s a trap.” Dean’s tone was scathing. “If it weren’t a trap, they’d have gone in and rescued the ‘Commander’ themselves. If it weren’t a trap, these other guys would have warded up.”

“Maybe we should re-think this, Dean.”

“Too late” Dean’s lips pursed, tight with worry. “If Cas is slipping into human…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

Sam brought the Impala to a stop along the curb of a side street. This part of town was derelict, the storefronts abandoned. Graffiti was splashed along most of the brick walls. A gray stone church in a state of long disrepair loomed before them. 

“Holy ground.” He looked at Dean. “Can you?”

“Guess we’re about to find out.”

They hopped the chain link fence that surrounded the church easily. They crept around the perimeter of the massive complex until they came to a walled side entrance, one long stone covered walkway running from the high outer wall to the main building. Vines from ivy gone wild growing up the stone wall made convenient handholds. He went over easily, but as Dean reached the top of the wall and started to swing one leg over, he suddenly grabbed violently at the nearest tendril of vine, almost toppling back over onto the street.

“Dean!”

“Son.of.a.bitch!” came from the other side.

“ _Dean_!”

“I’m fine. Just need a little.” Dean pulled himself up to the top of the wall again, pausing there and looking into the courtyard below. “Preparation.”

“What is it?”

Dean shook his head, not answering. He blew out a breath and tensed as he repeated his earlier maneuver. Grimacing with effort, he got both legs over the wall, dropped down onto the brick path below, and shook himself.

“It’s nothing.”

_Right._

“It’s a little sting-y.” Dean admitted reluctantly.

Sam looked around the weedy courtyard anxiously. “Maybe you should wait here.”

“And let you take on however many angels in there by yourself? I don’t think so.”

“I’ll use the sigil.”

Before he could say another word, he found himself unceremoniously sailing several feet through the air and tacked up against one of the pillars of the stone walkway.

“Sam. So glad you could make it.”

Standing in the doorway of the church was a tall, slim figure wearing a gray suit. Dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders. Long fingers adjusted the gray silk tie over his gray silk shirt, and his pale blue eyes gleamed with amusement in the full moonlight. Candlelight spilling out from the doorway behind him gave him the illusion of a halo.

Sam strained against the invisible force holding him in place. He tried to twist his head around so he could see Dean, but the courtyard was empty. Dean wasn’t on the walkway either.

“Interesting. A quick study, your brother.” The angel flashed him an insincere smile. “But then, that’s not necessarily desirable given his condition, is it?”

“What do you want?” 

“Want, dear boy? Nothing, for the moment. You can call this a … test.”

“A test of what?”

The gray angel’s smile was cool as he secured both of Sam’s wrists behind him and forced him forward into the church. “You’ll see, Sam. You’ll see.”

******

The interior of the church was vast, the floor littered with the rubble of shattered pews and broken glass. At the far end of the nave, three silent gray suits guarded the battered form of Castiel, kneeling on the ground before the remains of the high altar. 

Teleporting on holy ground was rough going. The air seemed to repel him, thick and viscous, trying to spit him out and push him back however he moved. Dean grit his teeth, ignoring the distracting sensation of needle-sharp jolts dancing through his funny bone and knees at random intervals. 

Having the First Blade in his hand helped. He held the old jawbone point down, and worked his way carefully along the balcony above the altar, stepping around the loose debris. He didn’t breathe, but the angels below looked up anyway, tracking his position with bright eyes. He avoided looking at them directly, not wanting his demon vision affected by the light of their grace. He kept his eyes on Cas, the flickering light of Cas’ stolen grace and the shimmering naiveté of Castiel’s not-human-not-soul. 

The side door opened, and Sam stumbled in, arms tied behind him at the wrists, roughly pushed from behind by the gray angel from the walkway earlier. Dean’s eyes narrowed. It was a piss poor knot, he could see that from here. Sam would be out of that in a minute once he was away from the angel shoving him. That gray one was… different.

“Sam.” Cas sounded alarmed.

Sam shook his head at Cas.

“Dean. I know you’re here.” Mockery was in his voice as the gray angel threw his words into the cavernous space. “Finding it tough going?”

He didn’t bother rising to the bait.

“Come on out. No?” The angel laughed a little dry laugh. “A little incentive, then. I wonder which one you will try to save first? Who are you willing to let die, hmm?” 

Dean moved further back into the shadows. Angel eyes followed him, all except the gray one. Stealth was clearly pointless. The gray angel gave a nod, and angel blades slithered out of sleeves and went to the throats of the captives.

“Let Sam go, Arkas. I will help you.”

Cas’ voice was scratchy and parched.

Dean dropped down in front of the altar, the inhuman ability to make the one story leap evident in the lightness of his landing. He straightened before the knot of angels, Castiel, and Sam. 

“Take them both. What do I care?”

He turned demon eyes on Arkas. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but it seemed to him Arkas pulled back slightly. Blue eyes looked sharply back at him, Arkas’ grace fully contained in his vessel, not leaking through at all. No light, not the human soul of the angel’s vessel, not the angel’s grace. It was peculiar.

After a moment, Arkas smiled again. “I think you care very much, demon. You’re still here, even though the air here wishes to be rid of your foul presence. So choose.”

Dean turned and stepped away. He let his voice drop to the demon’s echoing timbre. “You’re wrong. Sam wanted to come. It amuses me to see him try to hang on to something that isn’t there anymore. _I_ couldn’t care less.” It cost the world to walk the fine boundary to make his next words convincing with the ghostly echo. “ _They are all gray things._ ”

Sam visibly flinched back, his dismay convincing because it was genuine.

To Dean’s surprise, Arkas’ smile broadened, like he had gotten exactly what he wanted. He made a short slashing gesture to his followers. “Kill them both.”

What followed he could not really remember. Light. Movement. Darkness. He had to focus on one thing. Three angels, and the gray one. Three.

A blur of motion. His or theirs, hard to tell. The shock of grace hard against the First Blade, burning searing brightness lashing back at him as heated waves, the intensity of it far worse than when Tessa had impaled herself and he was human and saw with human eyes and felt with human skin. The feel of tattered feathers drifting against his face. The awkward smell of human emotion, strange on angel’s breaths, hot and sweaty fear, the taste of human sin, resentment and anger, weighting their wings down, tethering them to the earth as shackles they could not themselves see.

Each of his thrusts was certain. He moved without needing to look, trusting his other senses over sight—feeling them dance around him, silver blades flashing with deadly intent. Parry, swing, dodge.

Kill.

He didn’t miss.

Three. He had to remember.

He pulled up looking into Castiel’s wide blue eyes, the First Blade separated by a hair from Castiel’s vulnerable throat. His arm quivered with the effort of restraint. _Not the gray one not the gray one NOT THE GRAY ONE._

He jerked back, shaking, unable to unwind his fingers from the leather bound hilt. Demon sight lingered, the stench of death sharp against his nostrils. The pinch of holy ground beneath his feet, and Sam’s hand tentative on his arm. 

“Dean.” Cas’ voice, low with concern. What did Castiel _see_?

“Dean.” This from Sam, a bracing arm around him as the shudders started. _Cold, so cold_. _Cold_ in the dark stillness of death, _cold_ where he belonged, _cold_ six feet beneath the ground where he should have been ages ago, _cold_ , not pinging around in the world like a wrecking ball. It was hard to remember to be warm, to be like Sam, to see things other than the darkness in the world, to endure the uncertainty of his existence.

It was hard to remember to breathe when the smell of blood hung cloying in the soupy air.

Cas stayed where he was, not moving, not even twitching, despite the fact the glass shard he was standing on had to hurt. It was like he somehow knew the count was one short. The gray one.

“Sam.” Dean tried to find his normal voice. “The smarmy douche.”

“Gone, Dean. He took off the moment you went for the others.”

“Wings?”

“No. But he moves pretty damn fast. I heard a car start up outside.”

Reluctantly his fingers uncurled around the whispering weapon in his hand and let it fall. Sam moved between the First Blade and his hand, and he let that hand rest on Sam’s shoulder. Let himself lean, just for a moment. The urge to hurl was overpowering. He closed his eyes for a moment to settle his stomach, shutting out the bright after-images of death. He heard Cas ease up cautiously, and bend over to pluck the bit of glass out of his foot.

“Sorry, Cas.” The words came out thick around the bile sitting in the back of his throat.

“It’s okay, Dean. I understand.”

Forgiveness he didn’t deserve. And Castiel meant it, too. There was nothing he could say to that. Nothing would be adequate.

He went around it.

“Your feathery friends upstairs want you back.”

Cas paused in the middle of picking up the discarded angel blades on the ground around them.

He felt Sam’s head move. Sam picked up the conversation. “Who are the Fallen, Cas?”

Cas stopped moving altogether. Dean opened his eyes.

Cas had compressed his lips together, his face tense and set.

“All of the Fallen?”

“Hannah didn’t say. She just said they had lost too many trying to defend the portal. That they didn’t know who to trust.”

Cas handed two of the angel blades to Sam and kept one for himself, sliding it into the interior pocket of his trench coat. He murmured, mostly to himself. “I thought it was just Arkas. And maybe Suriel.”

“They seemed pretty freaked.” Sam pointed upwards, referring to the angels that held Heaven.

Possibilities flickered through Castiel’s expression, considering and discarding and reconsidering again. He paled.

“What?” Dean growled at the look that had come over Castiel’s face.

“It can’t be.”

“Cas.”

“An archangel.”

Sam’s hand tightened painfully on Dean’s shoulder for a second before he remembered and eased up. Dean pulled away from him and straightened. “I thought they were all dead. Except Michael and Lucifer.”

“It’s not clear. I thought his powers were stripped from him when he was imprisoned.”

“Maybe he got them back?” Sam suggested unhelpfully.

Cas was starting to look a little too unnerved for Dean’s liking. Cas, who had stood up to Michael and faced down Raphael.

“Cas!” He barked, mostly to break the moment. Cas’ eyes came back to him automatically at the sharpness of command in his voice.

“What is it?”

Cas shook his head, then stared distractedly off into space again. “I need to be sure.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Conversations with Cas tended to get to this point where he went all cryptic and absent, like he had dialed up the volume on the angel radio playing in his head. 

“I need to go.” Cas said.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Go back? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Dean.” Cas’ familiar patient exasperation crept in.

“They kicked you out, man. What’s to say they’re not going to do it again?”

Cas looked at a point over his shoulder before meeting his eyes. “I did this, Dean. I got them all kicked out of Heaven, and freed the Fallen. I need to fix it.”

Dean swore. Dammit all with Sam and Cas and their need to fix things. “Metatron did this, Cas. You just tried to do the right thing.”

Cas’ look was somber, repelling the excuses Dean tried on him. “They’re my family, Dean. I have to help them if I can.”

“What about your, uh.” Dean gestured at all of Cas, “grace problem? Who’s to say your ‘family’ isn’t going to get their panties in a bunch about it again?”

“I’ll deal with that when it comes up.” Cas looked at him gravely, a little too sincerely for someone who’d just had a knife to his throat a moment ago. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Dean was taken aback.

Hannah appeared beside Cas before he could answer. 

“Cas, wait.” Sam interrupted. “On the phone, before. The keys Arkas was talking about, what keys?”

Cas frowned as Hannah looked at him sharply. He shook his head at her briefly. “The keys to Hell, Sam. Arkas is looking for the keys to Hell.”


	11. Watch Over You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Alter Bridge.

The route between the bunker and town was a familiar one, even though Sam detoured around, driving aimlessly for miles to throw off any tails, to avoid falling into a predictable pattern.

_Always watch your six, son_.

A humorless huff was wrung out of him, both hands tightening on the Impala’s steering wheel. _Sure, Dad_ , he thought. _Only, it’s not so much the monsters tailing me I have to worry about. It’s the one I’m going back to._

As quickly as the thought came he cut it off. Dean wasn’t a monster. Dean wasn’t a monster any more than he had been when he’d been hopped up on demon blood. It was all the Mark of Cain.

Wasn’t it?

No.

He couldn’t think this way. He wouldn’t give up.

He fixed his eyes on the road ahead, to keep the image of the demon from crowding into his mind. Trying not to see the cold rage in his brother’s face, the First Blade edged up against Cas’ throat. He tried not to remember the liquid darkness of Dean’s eyes, like Ruby’s, nothing but smoke inside, smoke that could be squeezed out and banished, leaving the host behind. Only, like Ruby, if he exorcised the demon in Dean, what would be left? A comatose husk, because the demon was his brother.

A too cheerful gecko flashed by on a billboard as he cruised past at 80 miles per hour. He was driving too fast, lead foot on the gas, trying to outrun his thoughts. Memories beat a merciless tempo in his head, the past, the life, the way his brother had always moved, gracefully lethal, mercilessly precise. A hunter, a soldier trained to fight in his father’s war. 

A soldier trained to kill.

He huffed, willing his thoughts to a stop. It’d been a close call thing, but Dean had pulled up. He hadn’t cut into Cas; he hadn’t hurt anyone. He wasn’t any different than Lenore, than Amy, than Benny. If they could keep a grip on the monster within, so could Dean.

Except.

None of them, not Lenore, not Amy, not even Benny, could even begin to _imagine_ wiping out three angels without so much as breaking a sweat. Even Abaddon had given the angels a wide berth.

What was Dean becoming?

_Dead, dead man’s skin icy cold beneath his hand._

_Monster._

_Dangerous._

No. Not yet. They hadn’t been through Hell and Heaven and everything in between for it to come to this. There had to be something. A cure, a fix, some way out.

There just had to be.

With a deep breath Sam sat up straighter in the driver’s seat. He looked at his watch. He should be getting back soon.

He put the traitorous thoughts he’d been thinking away; locked them down.

He ought to know how.

After all, he’d learned from the best.


	12. Long Long Way from Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Foreigner.

“Yep. Yep. Okay. Will do.” Sam hung up the phone and looked thoughtful.

“What did Garth want?”

“Might be a case. A couple of goats have been torn up in Lexington.”

“Goats? Garth is worried about goats now?”

“Might be a chupacabra.”

Dean leveled him a get-real look. Sam was a horrible liar. Of all the things Garth would call about, a chupacabra was not one of them.

“I know you’ve been shopping low on the food chain, but don’t you think this is a little too low?”

Sam’s mouth set stubbornly at being called on what he had been doing.

He tried a different tack. “We’re just going to keep batting minor league until stuff craps loose all over everything? Come on, Sam, we can’t keep that up. _You_ can’t keep that up.”

Sam’s expression tightened.

“I will if I have to.”

Dean leaned back in his chair. He had a hard time believing his ears. Sam seemed prepared to pull the pillow over his head and let the world go to hell in a handbasket. Since Geary, they had hunted a trio of ghosts, a poltergeist, and most embarrassingly of all, a gnome. Maybe the gnome was harassing the family cat when no one was looking, but on the scale of one to apocalypse, it wasn’t even worth a mention. Meanwhile, the skinwalkers, shifters, vamps and demons they left to the other hunters, hunters who bled blood and died while they sat in the safety of the bunker and looked for change under the cushions.

Sam turned determinedly back to his laptop again, not looking up, lips set in a thin line. He knew Sam, knew how much this had to be gnawing at him, to have to sit on his hands and let others take the fall. Because he didn’t trust Dean’s control.

Dean stood, restlessness mixed with the feeling of being tied up in a knot setting in. Sam glanced up, then away again. Dean paced. 

“Dude.” Sam looked up at last as he rounded the room for the tenth time.

He shot Sam an exasperated look, and took himself off to pace the hallway. He didn’t know what Sam had _seen_ in Geary. Didn’t ask. All he remembered was what he felt, finding himself an inch from slicing off Cas’ head, and having to _fight_ the overwhelming compulsion to do it. He didn’t want to, and the part of him that knew he didn’t want to seemed small and fragile in the face of the burning Sauron voice on his arm. It would be so much easier to rid himself of the tethers to morality, cut himself loose so there was just one voice telling him what to do.

He sat down on the kitchen table and stared at the coffeepot. There had been a time when Sam had trusted him implicitly, even if Sam had been outraged like a ninny half of that time. That trust was gone, and maybe it should be. It was damn stupid to take your hand off the trigger after you pulled the pin on the grenade.

How was this going to end? How many ways could it end? He could think of a few, and none of them were good.

Sam walked in slowly. He had his ‘talk’ face on.

“I think we should summon Crowley.”

Dean pulled back and blinked, startled by Sam’s change in direction.

“Maybe he knows more about the Mark than he’s told us, Dean. Maybe there’s something else.”

Dean pressed his lips together forbiddingly. “And how are we going to get Crowley to talk? We have no leverage.”

Sam looked at him steadily, his implication clear.

Dean stood up again, and walked to the far end of the room. “I thought you didn’t want me to use my _powers_.”

Sam focused on his own shoe. “No. You were right, Dean. We can’t keep this up. What’s going on out there…”

Sam’s voice trailed off. He took a deep breath, “Roy and Jerry died. Hunting something, Garth wasn’t sure what, up in a little town just past Madison. Garth said it’s bad out there.”

Dean absorbed the news in silence. Garth kept in touch with some folks—it was handy to have someone available to man the phones and look up lore when you were knee deep in a case. Roy and Jerry had been good guys, willing to leave Garth’s new wolfy family alone for old times sake. And from the way Sam sounded, they hadn’t been the first.

“We need the intel, Dean, and Crowley’s the only person I can think of who might have it.” Sam sounded resigned.

Dean let his eyes read the label of the cereal box he was standing in front of. The resignation heavy in Sam’s voice weighed on him. Stuck between bad choices and worse choices, and having to bend to choose between them because there were no other options—it was not Sam. Given enough time, it would break Sam.

To stall while he thought, he asked casually, “Did you tell Garth about?” He gestured at himself.

Sam looked away. “No. But the word’s out.”

Awesome. He knew that was bound to happen sooner or later.

“Garth tried to put a good word out. But you know.” Sam sounded tired.

“Yeah.” He tried to loosen the muscle in his jaw. “Look, Sam. Maybe we should just, I don’t know, go our separate ways, huh?”

Sam’s head snapped up. “No.” 

“Sammy.” He tried reasoning, although it had never got him much traction before. Between the pre-law thing and the stubborn wheedling Sam could pull, he pretty much lost every argument he tried before he even started. “Don’t do this. Don’t tie yourself to a sinking ship.”

“You’re my brother.” Sam said stubbornly.

“And _now_ you remember this?” Dean said sharply. “What happened to..”

Sam’s expression dared him to say more.

They sat there, a stiff silence taking up the space between them. 

“Who else?” Dean finally asked.

“Dean.”

“Who, Sam?”

“Jerome. Christa. Ralph.” Sam paused in his recital of the hunters they knew who had wound up on the wrong side of Death’s ledger. “Jim and Mandy.”

Dean put his hand against the upright of the shelf, leaning against it a little. Hunters were not a close bunch by nature, but they kept track. There were always going to be casualties, fact of life, but Jim and Mandy had been good. Very good. He asked the question he’d been dreading.

“Demons?”

Sam looked startled. “Uh, not all of them.”

“But some?”

“Dean.” Sam sounded like Cas when he said that, all patience and forgiveness.

Dean bowed his head, staring at the Mark on his arm. His short laugh was bitter as he looked at it. He had always thought there would come a time when his watch would be over, and he could rest. Never did he think that Hell would one day make it onto the list of things he had to watch over.

He turned around.

“Let’s go have ourselves a little chat with the ‘King’ of Hell.”

******

“Hello, boys. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Give Sam Ruby’s knife back, Crowley.”

“Dean, really. Just because the knife can’t hurt you is no reason...”

It was easy, really. Crowley’s lips kept moving, but no sound came out. It took Crowley another two seconds to realize this, possibly because he loved the sound of his own voice, but the look he flashed Dean was nine parts worry and one part shock, so Dean figured Crowley had known all along the jig would be up someday.

“The knife, Crowley.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes with displeasure. Ruby’s knife appeared in his hand. THIS KNIFE? Crowley mouthed exaggeratedly as he slid it across the floor. Sam bent to pick it up, sheathing it in his jacket. Dean made a little gesture with his finger and Crowley croaked out a cough.

“Now, Squirrel.”

“Seems to me you miscalculated, Crowley.” Sam’s voice was cold.

“Expediency. I assure you letting that Ginger get the upper hand would have been far worse all around. Isn’t that right, Dean? The devil you know, and all?” The assessing look Crowley gave him was shrewd.

He propped his boots up on the table, crossed his arms, and leaned back. Crowley deserved to stew a little bit.

“The keys to Hell, Crowley. What are they?” Sam asked.

The crossroad demon’s eyebrows shot up. “Where did you hear about that?”

Sam held silent.

“Not from the redhead.” Crowley looked carefully at Sam. “Castiel? No. It wouldn’t be news.”

Sam tilted his head in a still-waiting gesture.

“Not physical keys, jolly green. And I’m not going to show you.”

“Why not?”

“Do I look stupid to you? Suicidal?”

“Then just explain.”

“Keys, you big girl’s blouse.” Crowley made a show of whistling. “Musical keys.”

Sam frowned. “Hell has musical keys?”

Dean brought the chair legs down on the floor with a bang. “Hellhounds.”

Crowley looked briefly impressed. Sam turned to him for an explanation.

“Whistle that controls the Hellhounds.” He looked at Crowley. “Hellhounds play fetch for your souls. All of them?”

“Extra side of slobber.”

“What would the…” Sam began.

“Demons going after hunters.” He stepped over Sam’s question, giving Sam a look before Sam said any more. Crowley didn’t need to know everything. Sam took the cue. “That stops now.”

Crowley gave him a measuring look. “They’re demons, smarty pants. Not angels. They won’t fall in line just because you say so.”

His answering smile was grim. “Then we’ll do a little house cleaning, won’t we?”


	13. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Imagine Dragons.

If someone had told him, years ago, that come someday they’d be cruising down 81, headed south towards Witchita, on a hunt with _Crowley_ , he would have laughed in their face. He wanted to laugh now, bitter and crazy, looking out through the Impala’s windshield at the lightening crashing across the horizon, flash after flash, arcing across the plains. The wind ripped at the ground, stripping the last leaves off the trees and jostling the highway signs. Beside him in the passenger seat, Dean looked unconcerned, because what was a demonic omen or two, when you had a Knight of Hell riding shotgun and the King of Hell in your backseat? 

“This,” Sam twirled a testy finger at their little group, “isn’t going to be the cause of massive crop failures and unexplained cattle mutilations from here to town, is it?”

“No!!” Dean said, before he caught sight of Crowley looking sketchy in the rearview mirror. “ _Crowley_?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “You know, we could have teleported. Half the time, fraction of the boredom and collateral damage.”

Sam grit his teeth. He hadn’t been about to let Dean run off with Crowley (again), on his own, doing who knew what, with Crowley pressing his advantage at every turn. It was fortunate that Dean had taken one look at the set of his face, and tossed him the Impala’s keys. Like the way Dean sketched a glance at him now, and turned his head slightly, raising one imperious eyebrow.

Crowley pursed his lips petulantly. “Fine.” He snapped his fingers once.

In the distance the lightening receded and the winds eased. Sam drew a breath, careful, if only because he wanted Bessie the cow to be okay, and because he didn’t want to look too closely at what just happened.

Twenty minutes later, they passed a billboard with a buxom blond shilling the local TV station. Crowley’s head turned in appreciation.

“Now that was a good deal.” He murmured to himself.

Another whole ten minutes of winter browned fields rolled by before Crowley leaned forward again.

“Can’t you go any faster?”

Dean looked over at the speedometer and looked back out the window again.

Sam’s lips flattened.

“No.”

“Small wonder you boys are always late to the party, Moose, plodding along at this pace.”

“Shut up.”

“You can’t make me.”

He glanced at Dean.

“Oooo, going crying to your big brother for help?”

Sam wound his hands tightly around the steering wheel at the ten and two position. He rotated them forward and back, flexing his wrists and gritting his teeth. 

Dean threw another warning look over his shoulder. 

“If you want to be that way about it.” Came the snooty comment as Crowley settled back against the seat.

An eternity later, Sam pulled the Impala into a parking space on Main Street. He stopped just short of slamming the car door behind him. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a regular deal, because he didn’t know how much more he could take. It was _Crowley_. Just because Dean was reluctant to kill him didn’t mean the reverse was true—in fact, Crowley would be far better off with Dean and his Knight of Hell powers out of the picture.

And there was no way Crowley wasn’t looking for a way to do just that.

Still scowling, he turned his attention to where they were. The street before him was sparsely populated on the weekday afternoon, too early for the dinner crowd and too cold for a lot of casual strollers to be out window shopping. A few rays of sunshine peeked through the clouds. A food delivery truck was unloading in front of the cafe, and the mailman was on his afternoon mail route. 

Dean got out of the car slowly, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders with a shrug. His gaze swept along the street casually, looking for things that did not belong. Looking with more than his eyes. Sam turned away, reminding himself it was still Dean. Still his brother, no matter what powers he may have gained.

Dean paused in the middle of his glance around with a frown, his attention snagging on something at the end of the street. Something, or someone. Sam looked. There were a few people down there at that far corner, coming and going from the little cluster of stores that included a mobile phone outlet and a florist’s. 

Dean’s eyes narrowed and his frown puckered.

Crowley unfolded himself from the Impala’s back seat, brushing at something on his suit and wrinkling his nose with distaste. Mid-motion, Crowley paused and looked up, his gaze going straight to a dark haired young woman standing in front of the tiny flower shop down the block.

Sam followed Crowley’s glance. The girl looked human enough, but what would he know?

“Demon?” He was forced to ask, biting down on the frustration that he had been forced to ask.

They both ignored him. Sam blew out a huff. Crowley was squinting like he needed glasses. Sam looked again. What was Crowley’s problem? He could see the girl just fine. She was turned away from them, her attention on a bucket of blood red roses. He was about to ask again, when abruptly Dean took off, striding down the street and making a beeline towards her, his right hand flexing and fisting absently, as if reaching for the First Blade.

Sam’s heart lodged in his throat. The things Dean saw now, when he looked at people, seeing more than surface and skin…

“ _Is she human_?” Sam barked at Crowley, demanding an answer.

Crowley pursed his lips, squinted again, and made a half-hearted shrug.

Dean disappeared mid-stride. Sam swore. He didn’t have time for whatever game Crowley was playing.

“Crowley!” Sam demanded roughly.

“Can’t tell.” Came the alarmingly vague answer.

Sam glared at Crowley and moved to go after Dean. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to remind Dean of where he was, what he was doing. That people were sometimes just people. He threw a sharp look over his shoulder at Crowley, who was slowly edging backwards, that puzzled frown still creasing his face. Whatever it was, Crowley wanted no part of it.

And the bastard was backing up around the Impala, putting the car between himself and the girl down the street. Sam looked at the girl again. His brain was slow catching up to him.

She wasn’t dressed for winter.

Sam swore. If she was a danger to Crowley, she was a danger to Dean.

And if she was human, Dean was a danger to her.

He broke into a run.

******

There was something not quite right in the air. It fizzed against his skin, and buzzed at a level almost too low for him to hear. 

_Her._

She had her back to him. There was a red rose in her hand, and he had an impression of brown hair, but everything else about her was somehow …fuzzy.

He shut out Sam’s demanding questions and concentrated, trying to _see_.

He took one step, then two, the First Blade dropping down into the palm of his hand in reaction, the Mark on his arm flaring. In the blink of an eye he was at the edge of the sidewalk behind her, as soundless as death, but she spun around on her heel anyway, the rose in her hand dropping back into the bucket with a deceptively precise flick of her wrist. Eyes the color of amber looked at him, calm, too calm, their unusual color half-veiled by long dark lashes. The white tank top she wore left her shoulders bare, vulnerable, but there was something about the muscle definition of her arms and the way she held herself, balanced on the balls of her feet beneath that long red skirt, that made Dean pull up short, just out of arm’s reach. He couldn’t see anywhere on her she could be hiding a weapon, but he would bet money she knew how to use one.

“ _What_ are you?” He barked without preamble.

A hint of amusement touched her lips at his words. Those amber eyes, almost gold in the slanting sunlight, studied the ferocity of his scowl without a trace of fear. 

What the hell?

He gripped the First Blade tighter in his hand, needing to _see_. He took a menacing step forward, crowding her into the alley besides the shop and asked again, his voice vibrating with suppressed anger, “ _What_ are you?”

She backed up when he pressed forward, that clear amber gaze never moving from his face. She really should have been afraid. A normal person would have screamed. The top of her head only came up to his chin and he knew his eyes were demon black. He out-weighed and out-muscled her, never mind he was brandishing a crazy person’s weapon, a low snarl forming in his throat from the unnerving steadiness of her gaze. He could hear Sam trying to get to where they were from down the street, running flat out, afraid _for_ her. 

"Dean." The word was soft and husky in her voice, breathed out in a whisper.

She took two steps ... towards him.

He felt as if time slowed, as if he should have reacted, should have brought the blade forward between her ribs, should have parried, dodged, or just _moved_ because no one had gotten the drop on him since he'd been a demon with the combined power of the Mark and the Blade. No one human should have been able to. Yet he felt her fingers skim his jaw, her touch feather light, as the last breath of his human name sighed across his lips. Her hand curved gently around the back of his neck, tugging his head down, then her lips touched his ever so softly as she leaned up into him. She traced the seam of his lips with the tip of her tongue, her other hand resting on the tensely bunched muscle of his arm, lightly, lightly, like a delicate butterfly seeking refuge on a lion's tooth mid-yawn.

He froze for an incredulous second, unbelieving.

She took that second to lean into him, into the kiss, her fingertips skimming the nape of his neck, her lips soft against his. Her eyes closed trustingly.

The rage and anger vibrating up his arm came to a standstill, quivering like an arrow drawn too tightly on a bow. 

With a growl, he bent. Slanted his head into the kiss, slickly tasting. His free hand curled around her nape as he stole her breath. His fingers wove themselves into the thick silk of her hair, cradling her head as he brushed over the curve of her lip with his tongue, feeling the heady rush of blood hammer his heart. An electric pulse shot down his nerves, lighting up his skin until he fizzed. How could he have forgotten?

_This_.

Her breath hitched sharply as he closed the distance between them. She slid both arms around his neck, going up on her tiptoes, pressing against him and rising into the kiss without hesitation.

It wasn’t enough.

The rough brick of the wall scraped the back of the hand he had around her head. She made a low sound in her throat, a sound that lit his nerves like lightening.

He drew a rough breath and then another. Physical pleasure was something he had been good at. Worked at. It was something he knew, and knew well. He deepened the kiss, feeling the part of her lips beneath his, the hitch in her breath, the need in the tightening of her hand on his neck.

He wanted more.

He shifted, trying to find a position to soothe the heated clamoring in his blood. His skin felt hot, hot like it needed to be cooled with rapid breaths, and that was insufficient. He needed something else, something to bring down this fever that was burning him alive, making him blind to where he was, blind to everything but the flame in his arm. Arms. That was it. He needed both hands.

With a careless flick he cast aside the obstacle he had clenched in his right hand, and used that now free hand to boost her so she fit against him, shoulder to hip. _God, yes._ It didn’t matter there were like sixteen layers of cloth between them, or that she was hampered by the restrictive confines of that slim skirt. He felt her tight sweet movements, trying to get closer to him, trying to find the thing he was looking for, until all sensation and thought focused on seeking that thing that would free him in an explosive burst.

Reluctantly he broke away on a gasp, needing to find oxygen so he could keep the fire going. He was leaning in for more when he felt her drawing back, just a tiny bit, like the edge of pain and something else, bright and burning and unnamed. He wouldn’t have noticed except for that part of him that was screaming that breaking the kiss was an irrevocable mistake; that part of his senses finely tuned to years of dealing with unholy random shit.

It was in her eyes.

_Goodbye._

Feeling like a hot blade dug into his innards.

The soft sound of her breathing shifted the inches of air between them.

He had forgotten he didn’t need air.

He went dead still. The cool clarity that was the gift of the brand on his arm never seemed like a better idea. He needed to know _what_ she was. He needed to _see_. But he couldn’t look away, afraid to break that point of contact, foreboding twisting in his gut. His arms closed tighter around her. He was holding her as if he would never let go, and she him. They stayed that way a moment; then that moment shivered and sighed. He felt her pour all her willpower into her next words; still they came out as no more than a sigh of sound.

_“Find me.”_

She let go with one arm, trusting his grip to hold her. She reached up, ran her thumb against the hard line of his jaw. She smiled at him then, an impossible smile, breathtaking with future promise. 

Before he could react, she tensed up, as if bracing for some unimaginable pain or impact. A blinding flash-not-flash seared across his demon senses, burned down to his human self and knocked his brain about with the force of a stun grenade. His physical body staggered forward into the wall, stepping into the space where she had been. He found his hands still gripping but met with nothing but air. He felt whammied, because he didn't remember letting go, but she had vanished all the same. He looked left, looked right and caught sight of Sam staring intently at him, looking as shocked as he felt.

"Where'd she go?" Dean bellowed, the pure raw fury in his voice causing several heads to turn in his direction. He moved in Sam's direction, retrieving the First Blade from where he had flicked it without thought. He saw Sam take a pause at that, but that was just tough.

"You didn't see that?" Sam asked, looking at him intently.

"See what? That she was actually a two-headed monster? A succubus? Another frikkin' Greek God?" None of these would have surprised him particularly, though he much preferred the succubus option. 

"Dean. You didn’t see that?" Sam repeated.

"No, Sam. Obviously. What was she?" He looked over at where Crowley was blinking furiously as if he too had been blinded. Peculiar. "Where'd she go? She do that phase thing the gods do or what?"

Sam was looking at him funny. The kind of funny that usually preceded Sam telling him something that was not going to go over well.

"I know she looked human, Dean. Then she sort of shimmered and…” Sam made a fisting and exploding gesture, splaying out his fingers to explain. “Poof. Maybe it was a glamour or something and she was never really there."

"Oh, she was real, Sam."

"Yeah, maybe. I didn't feel anything, but you and Crowley looked like you got knocked back for a loop. The only thing I know of with enough mojo to get you and the King of Hell is a human soul."

"One minute she's flesh and blood, next minute she's an energy bomb? That doesn’t sound too human to me, Sam. Anyway, what's her point? We're still standing."

Sam cast one of his Significant Looks at the First Blade, and Dean shifted uneasily. He slid the Blade back in its holster, then nodded towards Crowley. "What's up with him?"

Sam grit his teeth and said between them, "I told you. Flash bang, exploding soul. Are you seriously not going to talk about this?"

He could still taste that kiss, lingering like whiskey lightening on his lips. He shot Sam a shuttered look and moved away, heading back towards the Impala. Trust Sam to want to pick at a scab, though this felt less a scab and more like a great gaping hole. He clenched his jaw to avoid reacting.

"I kissed a girl, Sam. It's happened before. What are you, 12?"

******

Crowley was still blinking when they got back to him.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

Trust Crowley to be obtuse when it suited him.

“That.” Sam gestured behind him at the florist’s, making a ka-boom gesture with his hand.

“Not sure.”

“Really.” Dean’s voice dripped pure skepticism.

“Never seen anything like it.” Crowley blinked several times more. “Never want to again, actually.”

Sam was still staring suspiciously at Crowley. “What did it do?”

Crowley turned away. “Nothing permanent, I’m sure.”

“That wasn’t why you brought us here?” Sam was not past the idea of this whole setup being a trap.

Crowley had the nerve to look offended. “Time of day, boys. Not _everything_ I do revolves around you two. Matter of fact, tick tock. Do you want to hunt some demons or not?”


	14. I am the Highway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Chris Cornell.

_Safe._

_Arms wrapped around her, the strength in them like steel. The faintly calloused hand cradling her neck was exquisitely gentle, fingers stroking the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Lips on hers, desperately seeking._

_Her breathing accelerated, spurred by the electric feel of the mouth on hers. Her limbs turned liquid against the heated muscular frame that held her securely against him, harsh rapid breathing in time with her own, heart thudding heavily against her._

_Closer. Hands shifted her so she was against him shoulder to hip, the friction purely erotic even through layers of clothing. Her eyes closed to savor the addictive touch drifting along her skin, gossamer and pure heat. She let herself melt into the heat and certainty of the embrace, bonelessly pliant in his arms._

_Loss. A cool kiss of air replaced the lips. She opened her eyes, unable to see beyond a bright whiteness, and she tensed, gripping tightly to the security in those arms. Holding on as long as she could before the spinning falling tearing started, falling into the light then darkness._

_Falling without end._

She spun out of bed, dragging sheet and comforter with her, bare feet spaced and steady on the ice cold floor, her dagger swept up off the nightstand in the single move, held at ready in the half crouch.

Djinn.

Still breathing hard from the dream, both parts of it, she looked around wildly, trying to slow the panic into something resembling order. Something resembling control.

The room was familiar. Smooth wood floors, a plain bed, plain walls. Nothing had mutated into cottage chic or chi-chi minimalism. It was just bare and unadorned, except for her long sword on its rack and the TV. The weight and balance of the dagger in her hand was just as it had always been. 

And the floor was freezing-ass cold.

Her breathing slowed, but did not quite steady. _That_ dream was new. Tendrils of it still curled in whispers around her mind, the elusive promise of being held like those arms had held her. 

_Safe._

Her grip on the dagger tightened and she scanned the room again. You couldn't see a Djinn feeding on you unless... 

She yanked open the nightstand drawer, the motion rougher than she had allowed herself in years. She put her hand flush against the cold silver blade sitting next to the Glock, and focused, clearing her mind ruthlessly of the sweetness of the dream, and looked.

The room remained the same. She could see the darkness around the curtains, the first shades of gray morning yet to come. Breathing easier, she closed the drawer with a soft click, and kicked free of the sheet around her ankle.

She tapped the clock to bring up the backlight. 

4:30.

Ah hell. Close enough. She wasn't getting any more sleep after that anyway. She sheathed the dagger and left it on the nightstand, shedding her camisole on the way to the bathroom and launching it with a careless flick to land on the bed. In five minutes she was dressed in her work clothes: jeans, turtleneck, jacket, boots. She tucked the Glock in against the small of her back before kneeling for her sword. She felt better when she had it in her hand.

She stepped out into the darkness through the sliding glass doors and onto the large wooden deck. She did not turn on the light, letting her eyes adjust to the faint glow of the late moon. A hint of salt was on the incoming ocean breeze as she collected her thoughts and swept them from her head. She shed the dream with the long practice of shedding nightmares, accustomed to being dumped out of bed by panic.

The dreams didn’t matter. They weren’t real. 

She crossed to the middle of the deck, and centered herself with a deep breath, letting all emotion drain away. She rested her right hand lightly on the pommel of the long sword at her side. The leather bindings were worn and smooth as she slid that hand down the length of the hilt. Her left hand remained on the smooth wood of the scabbard, poised without tension, position precise, balanced and waiting.

With a liquid flick she thumbed the sword from its sheath. Her right hand followed the motion of the left automatically, completing the draw and strike in a single movement.

There was no room for hesitation. 

She completed the ritualistic movement, flicking non-existent blood, returning the sword to its sheath, awareness of its lethal cutting edge her only thought. Draw, strike, return; she would repeat this and other patterns until the sun had cleared the sea, the far mists risen, and bird calls filtered through the air. She would clear her mind of everything but her breathing and the honed steel blade in her hands, joining the two until they were one and indistinguishable.

******

The phone rang as she was toweling her hair dry. She checked the number on the caller ID. Huh. That was different.

“Yeah?” she didn’t bother with a greeting. Garth knew whom he was calling.

Apparently he felt the need to confirm it anyway. “Zee. You have time to go to Dolgeville?”

Dolgeville. She ran through her most recent news searches in her head. Missing people—nothing specific. There was a rash of that happening all over of late. She wasn’t sure why Dolgeville stood out, so she asked.

Garth hemmed and hawed, which was unlike him.

“Travis was up there.”

Zee narrowed her eyes in distaste. Travis was a cowboy. The last job she’d worked with him underfoot he’d walked straight into a nest of vampires, his little brain distracted by a pert ass and saucy smile. She was honestly amazed he was still alive.

“Couldn’t get anyone else to go?”

Garth coughed.

Zee rolled her eyes. “Right.”

She didn’t blame them. Cut and run on too many people, you developed a reputation. Hunters like that came and went. If they were lucky, they quit after a bad job shook them up. If not, well. There were other ways of going. “How long?”

“I haven’t heard from him in a week.” Garth cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And his phone hasn’t moved.”

Zee picked up pen and paper. “Coordinates.”

She noted the location as Garth rattled off the numbers.

“Let me know?” Garth’s question was tentative and apologetic.

“Yep.” She disconnected as she replied, keeping the conversation to a minimum. She tossed the phone in the open duffel on the floor. Dolgeville was six hours away. She could be there by evening if she left now.


	15. Mean Little Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Howling Diablos.

Dean had always been fond of Elijah’s. It was a dive, sure, but there was booze and there was Traci with an _i_ , which was pretty much all he required for a good time. Plus, no one got up in your business or asked too many questions at Elijah’s, mostly because Elijah’s solution to all disputes was the shotgun he kept behind the bar. Word got around.

Now, looking down that same double barrel and back up into Elijah’s demon eyes, his hand tightened around the hilt of the First Blade. Sam had backed up against him, despite the fact he was holding the old donkey bone. There was a little bit of wisdom in that; in this crowd of hunters-turned-demons, there was a 50-50 chance he was the lesser of two evils—at least to Sam. 

Crowley’s intel had only said Albuquerque, grossly neglecting to mention the unholy mess they would find once they got there. It was damned-if-you-do and damned-if-you-don’t, a demon massacre one way and a hunter massacre the other, killing friend and foe in one untidy blow. This got out, what they did here, their names went straight to the top of the list of “Hunting’s Most Wanted”, with a ten point alert that would put some of the country’s best trackers on their tail.

“Exorcism?” Sam muttered under his breath.

Dean looked at the hunters around him, seeing the bruised faces and blood stains on clothing.

“They won’t survive. They made sure of that.” He replied shortly. “We’re screwed.”

Sam huffed out a tight breath, Ruby’s knife in his hand. The reluctance radiating off Sam was palpable.

The demon that wore Elijah smiled.

“Frankly, I’m disappointed. I thought you’d be bigger.”

A snicker ran around the room.

“At least with arms like the Hulk. A real skull crusher. _You_ don’t look so scary to me.”

He narrowed his eyes. This brash impudence from a demon that could _see_ him was new. Sam fidgeted behind him, resisting the urge to turn and check for himself. Dean tested the heft of the First Blade in his hand.

He didn’t feel any different.

As a quick check, he glared at Elijah-demon, shutting off its voice.

Silence fell on the crowd as Elijah’s lips kept moving around soundless insults that came to a halting stop of realization.

Oops.

Dean squeezed. Smoke bubbled reluctantly out of Elijah’s mouth. He could _see_ the thing, the scales and fangs, writhing and oozing, digging into Elijah’s insides with its claws, twisting in his grip. Arrogant, to think it could fight him. Stupid, to even try.

He grabbed the smoke by the throat and yanked. Elijah dropped to his knees, head rolling back, grotesquely suspended by the smoke boiling out of his mouth. The demon shrieked when the First Blade plunged into it, and the shriek turned into a squeal when he kept pulling, pulling and cutting, splitting it the long way with the bone blade.

Slow cuts. Slow death.

To a man, the crowd around them stepped back.

He looked at the faces ringed around him. Some familiar, some not, black eyes now flashing uniformly with fear.

That was more like it.

“Call Cas.” He growled at Sam.

Sam followed his train of thought perfectly, and closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer.

He wasn’t angry. This was about making sure things were understood—that these two-bit pissant demons and all the others like them knew their place in the hierarchy of things. He wrenched them squealing from their meatsuits, the Mark on his arm glowing a fiery red in the dimly lit bar, the sound of choking and gagging noisy in the smoky booze filled air. Cut, cut, cut, the First Blade worked its way methodically down the line, severing the twisting cords of smoke with each stroke. When he reached the end of the line, he brought his feet to a standstill, the temptation to keep going an ever-present drumbeat running rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat in the back of his mind. He ought to find that rat bastard Crowley, yank out his innards, and jam the Blade up his sternum for this. Space blurred, the way to Hell, to Crowley’s snug little office, opening before him. His foot lifted on the forward step when Sam’s voice called sharply from behind him.

“Dean!”

He was slow to turn. He had things to do. Things that made sense, made more sense than staying here, mired in mess after mess, pulling Sammy down with him, down into the bowels of Hell, where all Sam would have were bad choices and worse choices with no fallback next time. And there would be a next time.

“DEAN!” More insistent this time.

He didn’t understand why Sam hung on. Hung on so hard when Dean was so clearly lost. He looked at the lifeless bodies sprawled out around them, people they knew, had traded information with, and had traded jibes with, the shrill echo of demon screams still tingling in his ears. He didn’t understand why Sam hung on to this—this life—nothing but the promise of pain and more pain for all time to come, nothing to salvage, nothing to save.

A bright flutter at the corner of his eye whirled him around.

Threat.

The First Blade in his hand was pointed at the angel in the room.

Hannah’s lieutenant held out both hands, warily, weaponless.

Sam turned towards the newcomer, relief on his face. “Little help.”

Sam gestured at the bodies lying around them.

Noah’s face was cold as he looked impassively at the dead hunters. “We’re not your errand boys, Sam Winchester.”

“Yeah?” Dean curled his lip. “I figure you owe us. And I’m calling it in.”

The angel turned to him, bright eyes giving him a searching look for a long second. Sam’s eyes followed the angel’s glance, and Sam stopped. His glance flicked from Dean’s eyes to the First Blade in Dean’s hand and back again.

“What?” Dean demanded.

“Nothing.” Sam’s something-nothing had him itching for a mirror. Maybe the horns were just late coming in, like fucked-up wisdom teeth.

Their sidebar was interrupted by Noah moving begrudgingly, clearly having been overruled by someone on angel radio up high. He was working his way around the room, two fingers to foreheads, groggy heads coming up and shaking themselves like wet dogs as he passed by. Noah threw him a final look when he came to Elijah last.

“And we’re even.”

He nodded curtly. With a flutter of air, Noah disappeared.

“What the hell?”

Sam moved automatically, heading over to help Elijah to his feet. He opened his mouth to stop Sam, but then decided Sam could find out for himself.

Elijah’s meaty arm flew out, and Sam landed with a whap back against the bar. Elijah had a little thing about being helped.

“Lay off, boy. I’m just winded. Git your namby-pamby mitts off me before I shoot your ass so full of rock salt you’ll be able to ward off demons by coughing.”

Sam backed the hell off, both hands up in the air. Sam shot him a wtf-little-warning-maybe? bitchface.

“What happened?”

“Gas leak.” Dean’s answer was glib.

The old man glowered darkly at him, seeing the old excuse for what it was. Elijah’s eyes went to the First Blade still in his hand, shotgun coming up level.

“So it’s true.”

Sam moved closer to him, hand going back to his own gun.

Dean shrugged, another easy twitch of the shoulders. “You’re still alive.”

Elijah’s hands stayed steady on the shotgun. “Don’t you sass me, demon.”

He tilted his head and waited, taking his chances. He moved a little bit in front of Sam, getting between Sam and the shotgun barrel, his footsteps loud in the hushed room.

Elijah’s eyes narrowed as he watched as he reposition himself. There was a pause as thoughts went through the grizzled eyes. The muzzle of the gun made a small wave in the direction of the door.

“Git. And don’t ever come back. Either of you.”

It was too quiet. Hunters surrounded them. Twitchy, just-woken-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-a-fight hunters. He could feel eyes on the First Blade, eyes on him, eyes on his head like he had horns. He shuffled a small step towards the door, Sam following with his gun out and cocked.

No one moved. It was like they had some sense of what happened, and where the balance of the scales lay. 

They made it to the door and out, quick steps to the Impala, a wake of dust behind them and they were on the road again, heading back to the bunker when Sam spoke.

“You feel okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Nothing.” There it was again, that something-nothing.

“What?!” His day was not going particularly well. He was going to have a word or six with Crowley when they got back, with Crowley NOT doing any of the talking.

“It’s just.” And as irritatingly as hell, Sam stopped there.

He waited Sam out.

“You’re not doing the demon eyes thing anymore.”

Dean blinked his thoughts to a stop. He wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news. He felt the same. He could still do—stuff. On the other hand, Elijah had looked like Elijah, six shades of grumpy with a side of sourpuss. He was vaguely glad he didn’t _see_ Elijah, because that would probably have been a fucking mess. Whatever Elijah thought about, he _really_ didn’t want to know.

“Huh.” Was all he said.


	16. Left Turn on a Red Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from song by Blackfoot.

Darkness was settling by the time Zee pulled off the thruway onto the two-lane road leading to Dolgeville. Sparse forest blocked the pale light of the moon, giving way every now and then to open field, still slushy and damp with snow. The coordinates Garth had given her were on the eastern edge of town, neither here nor there, the very remoteness of the location suggesting trouble.

She slowed down as she approached the area. Trees lined the embankment by the road, the shrubbery between them dense and undisturbed. She was scanning the soft roadside mud for tire tracks when a faint movement up ahead caught her eye. The headlights reflected off something bright, like blond hair. She slowed the car more as she neared, now able to see the kid standing by the side of the road, wrapped in a natty hooded maroon overcoat that had seen better days some better days ago. The kid was facing away from the road, looking towards the forest, but there was no one else in sight, and no car parked anywhere she could see. 

As the glare of the headlights swept across where the kid stood, he turned, a pale grubby face with intensely blue eyes. Ash blond hair showed under the loose edge of his hood, and his hands were tucked into his pockets to ward off the cold. The hem of his jeans dragged in the roadside mud as he moved, and a flash of silver metal low to the ground glinted.

Zee stopped the car somewhat slowly, hunter’s instincts ticking. A normal person would have been out of the car in a flash, all concern and worry, checking and asking if the kid was okay, if he needed help. He couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8 or 9; it was hard to tell, and she was no good with ages anyway. It was too far out of town and his face too smudged with dirt for it to be anything but some kind of trouble, but Zee sat still for a moment and watched the kid stare back at her, something like panic showing in his eyes. His hands stayed in his pockets, and he stayed silent, not calling out to her for help or in greeting.

Something was off.

The warning of Travis’ disappearance in this same area was too great to ignore. Without taking her eyes off the kid, she reached around behind her for the shorter of her two swords. She got out of the car, staying behind the door as she slipped the sword into position on her belt. She wanted both hands free.

The kid hadn’t taken his eyes off her, even in the glare of the headlights, but now he flicked a look behind her, expectant and frightened. Her right hand went automatically to the hilt of her sword as the hair on the back of her neck stood up with that look—vamps did this sometimes—used bait. Maybe she had been hunting too long, but a helpless little kid by the side of the road at night? It was a perfect trap. 

She didn’t hear them. Of course she didn’t hear them. It was the lightest brush of air against her cheek that spun her around, in time to see the vampire bare his fangs and duck the hand reaching for her throat. Her subsequent draw and swing was pure reflex.

The vampire’s head rolled off with a thunk to the ground. 

Easy.

Oh, come on. Even Travis couldn’t have screwed that up. 

Thud-thud. THUD.

Behind her.

She whirled around, but the sight that met her eyes brought her to a dead stop.

Two burly figures were wrestling a second vampire to the ground. Hunters? Garth hadn’t said anything about anyone else. Their faces were turned away, but the clothing they wore was filthy and torn, even for having-been-in-a-bar-fight standards. The kid had moved up the steep embankment, closer to the tree line. He kept his face turned away from the brawl, eyes tightly closed. The glint of metal she had seen earlier resolved itself into the shape of a chain, a tether that went from a shackle on the kid’s ankle to a stake in the ground.

What the hell?

Automatically she moved towards the kid to free him when one of the figures wrestling the vampire looked up at her. 

White eyes.

The vampire bit the hand of his attacker as he was distracted. Instead of flinching in pain, the white-eyed hulk just laughed and ever so casually clubbed the struggling vamp with a meaty fist. The bloodsucker coughed up a spray of blood, and vampire eyes slid to look at her, pleading for help.

A vampire asking a hunter for help.

_Shit._ Get out. Grab the kid and get the hell out.

The ring holding the kid’s chain to the stake was not thick and bent open when she banged on it with a nearby rock. She looped up the chain in her left hand as she went, until she reached the kid and grabbed his hand. He was freezing cold, having been staked out here for God knows how long. 

The burlier of the two monsters looked up again from wrestling the vamp. It rose slowly to its feet and faced her, those milky white orbs skimming over her like it was weighing the amount of meat on her bones.

The vampire on the ground fought harder now that he was only dealing with one assailant. He twisted an arm free and swung at the second brute pinning him to the ground. With surprising agility, the heavyset monster dodged nimbly to one side, grabbed the vampire’s arm by the wrist and with a casual twist, ripped the vamp’s arm clean off. 

The vampire’s howl of pain echoed off the trees. 

She and the kid were about ten feet from the car. It was ten feet too far.

She put the length of chain she had gathered up in the kid’s hand.

“Car. Go.”

Her order was curt. There was a moment’s hesitation, but the kid obeyed, clinking awkwardly as he went, taking the long way around the back of the car, keeping his distance from Hulk One and Hulk Two.

Milky eyes tracked the kid’s progress silently, leaving the one-armed vampire for his buddy to finish off. It wasn’t worried about the kid getting away. And why should it be? They had just casually dismembered a vampire and she was but a measly human. Hulk One turned those freaky eyes on her. Pure white where demon eyes were black, it look like it should be blind but it could clearly see. She flicked a look down as the vampire started to squeal, and promptly wished she hadn’t.

Hulk Two was ripping off chunks of vampire and _eating_ them, stuffing quivering blobs of flesh into its mouth, using one hand then the other in a frenzy of feasting, blood and skin dripping messily down its chin and front.

Zee gagged. Suddenly she realized how those blotchy, almost black stains that went all down the front of their shirts had gotten there. 

The door of the car opened and closed with a thud as the kid got in. She swallowed queasiness and took a cautious step towards the car, keeping her eye on the ape-like bulk of Hulk Number One. She had a pretty good guess as to what these things were, although this was certainly a variant on the zombie theme she hadn’t seen before. White Eyes moved as she moved, angling to put himself between her and the car.

Her first bullet went neatly into the center of his forehead.

Nothing.

Her second bullet went straight through his heart.

Shrugging off the bullets, Hulk One broke into a mocking grin. He let his arms swing loosely, like a gorilla preparing for a fight. There was no way getting in a hand-to-hand brawl with a man-ape with super-strength was remotely a good idea.

Discarding caution for speed, she made a run for the car, one hand holstering her useless gun. She almost made it, the front fender of the SUV bumping her knee as she rounded the corner on a skid, but she wasn’t quite fast enough. A heavy hand came down on her left shoulder, fingers like talons biting in, puncturing her jacket, gouging into her back, gouging deep and slicing down. She bit her lip to avoid crying out, feeling her flesh split and part. Pain, dizzying and blinding, swamped out everything else. She focused on the cold air she was sucking into her lungs with each gasping breath, blocking pain out. Focus on the details. The warm ooze of blood trickling down her back. The icy night air raising goosebumps on her skin where it seeped through the shredded gap in her jacket. The curl of her fingers around the familiar leather hilt of her sword.

She clenched her jaw. Her short sword whistled through the air as she turned and swung, a clean flash of steel arcing up to behead the zombie, the same move she had used on the vampire except for one small, tiny, thing.

It didn’t die. The head rolled off, but the thick body continued forward unabated, hands still flexing blindly in front.

Zee stumbled back, off balance and fighting both dizziness and nausea from the bleeding gash that ran the length of her shoulder blade. The headless zombie swung a fist in her direction, connecting with her chin, sending her head whipping back and more stars streaming across the night’s blackness. Her thigh bumped against the fender as she tumbled backwards, supporting herself against the solid bulk of the car.

Headless was still moving forward, groping blindly. She held her breath as she forced her left hand steady, needing it to brace the sword in her right. Screaming pain flared, the tear on her back stretching wide open as she swung. Shut it out. Think only of breathing, the rhythm of the movement. Concentrate. Sword up, stroke down and to the right, through the zombie’s outstretched arm easy as butter.

With a dull thunk the severed arm rolled off the hood of her car, leaving a streak of tarry, rotten blood down the shiny chrome of the front grill. The suddenly unbalanced body stumbled, crushing weight trapping her against the car, heavy and claustrophobic. The zombie’s feet were still trying to propel it forward, and the remaining arm was grabbing blindly at anything it could reach.

Zee dodged and squirmed, trying to find leverage. She straight-armed the headless torso with a sudden jab, and wriggled out. The detached head was cursing at her in unintelligible grunts, eyes darting back and forth looking for its severed arm. That arm was crawling around on the ground. And what was left of the body was still trying to right itself against the hood of her car.

Stop thinking. Just move.

Pathetic whimpers came from what was left of the sodden mess of vampire a few feet beyond. She didn’t look. Her left hand closed on the car door and yanked it open. Bright white filled her vision for a second as the movement aggravated her wound. She kept moving, because it was the only choice. Move or die. She tossed her bloody sword over to the passenger side, and slid in, sparing a glance for the wide-eyed kid in the back.

“Buckle up.” She said shortly, slamming the door closed awkwardly and shooting the locks shut.

The car dinged at her angrily as she fired the ignition and hit the gas simultaneously, rolling ruthlessly forward, running into the zombie body with a crushing thud. The wheels came up and over with a cracking noise as she ran the two ton vehicle over the zombie head, and she kept driving, steering grimly with one hand as she ran the other monster down and drove over him, repeatedly, ignoring the screams of rage as she methodically crushed all of them into pancake flatness.

Sometimes brute force trumped everything.

******

The kid had been silent the past ten minutes as Zee drove in the general direction of town. A town, anyway. She needed to get out of the area where zombies had used a kid to bait a trap for vampires. Or vampires had —well, someone had set bait for someone. She needed to stop and see if her shoulder had stopped bleeding. If she thought about it, she was pretty sure it hurt like a son of a bitch, ergo, she was not thinking about it. It wasn’t lethal, she assumed, since she was still breathing. She needed to stop because she was starting to feel woozy, and she had a kid of unknown origin and questionable humanity wearing an ankle shackle and chain in her back seat and a bloody sword next to her. 

And she needed to stop because she was getting blood all over her driver’s seat.

She was leaning on the steering wheel with her left arm; steering might have been too generous a word. She kept her right hand on the gear shift, free to grab the sword just in case the kid in the back turned out to be not a kid and tried to strangle her as they rolled through the featureless night.

What the hell kind of crap had Travis walked into?

She drove past the bright lights of a gas station ten long minutes later. No place with cameras. And questions. The edge of town petered by as they drove, the lights bright and too illuminating. She turned off the main drag, feeling her way around for a back road, some quiet parking lot to stop in before either unconsciousness or the law caught up with her for weaving erratically on the road.

“Go left up there.”

What?

She must have said that out loud, because the kid’s voice repeated, clearly and patiently. “Go left at the corner.”

God. She hoped his parents were going to be so ecstatically happy to see him they wouldn’t shoot her on sight.

She took the left at the next corner.

“Keep going until you get to the end.”

Clearly, he had judged her as being able to handle only one instruction at a time. He wasn’t that far off.

The occasional dog barked as they drove past a block of modest houses, coming to a small park at the end of the block. Huh. She’d been expecting a house, tearful reunions and suspicious looks followed by a night of evade-the-cops, but this would do. She slipped the car into a spot far from the circle of light cast by the lone street lamp. The street was mostly empty. She looked up, checking for security cameras on the lamp post, but there weren’t any.

She killed the engine and headlights, and listened for a minute, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. Waiting, to see if anything moved in the shadows, or came out to greet the kid for bringing home dinner.

“Where’s this?” She asked.

“Park.”

She narrowed her eyes and half turned, wincing as the movement pulled on her shoulder.

“I can see that. Why here?”

“My dad said all animals need a quiet place to lick their wounds when they’re hurt.”

Oookay. Not flattering, but accurate.

“Where’s your dad?”

The kid went silent, dropping that blue gaze to the floor.

“Gone.”

His right hand came up subconsciously, tapping a place over his heart as he answered. Zee watched the little gesture silently, and came to a decision.

“Right.” She scanned the dark street again. “Let’s get that thing off your ankle, yeah?”

Her most vulnerable moment would be when she got out of the car. She hesitated for a second, then snagged her sword off the passenger seat before opening the car door. There was trusting and there was foolish, and unarmed was foolish.

A dog barked a few houses over, but the shadows in the park stayed still.

She gave the sword a flick to clear the dark ooze of zombie blood on it before sliding it into its sheath. She beckoned to the kid.

He got out as slowly as she did, looking around warily, like a miniature hunter. He dropped the long chain to the ground with a soft clink, making as little noise as possible.

The lock wasn’t complicated. The ankle shackle was mostly hidden by the kid’s muddy jeans, as it was meant to be. She had it off in a half minute, working in the dim light, ignoring the stab of pain as movement pulled the deep cut on her back apart anew. She needed to get that cleaned.

“There.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

The kid’s coat reeked of stale food and garbage. At close range, he looked half feral except for the sharp awareness in those baby blue eyes. 

“Let’s get ourselves cleaned up, yeah?”

She led the way around to the back of the car, the kid trailing along behind like a silent shadow, staying close nervously. 

She opened the back hatch of the Durango and handed the kid a bottle of holy water.

“Take a drink and wash up.”

If he noticed she stood still and watched him with her hand on the pommel of her sword as he did so, he didn’t comment. Nor did he hesitate. She let go a tiny breath and grabbed a second bottle of water for herself and started peeling out of her jacket gingerly, looking over her shoulder at the ugly mess of dried blood and torn fabric. Butterfly bandages and gauze and several tubes of antibiotic after a liberal douse with alcohol ought to do it, but she couldn’t do all that here.

She swabbed off the worst of it with an alcohol soaked wad of gauze and bit her lips on a hiss at the sharp sting. Fresh blood started to flow. 

She sat on the tailgate of the car for a minute and waited for the bright spots in her vision to settle. The kid stared at her narrowly again, trying to gauge if she was going to pass out.

“You going to pass out?” came his inquiry in the next breath.

“Trying not to.” She said between gritted teeth. “You from around here?”

He had to be, to know the location of this park.

The kid went silent again. She was starting to recognize the quality of that distrustful pause as not wanting to lie, but not wanting to say anything either. He poured some more water onto his hands and scrubbed at his face before answering.

“Kinda.”

The water wasn’t helping. With some of the grime removed, he just looked pale and hollow cheeked, underfed and drawn.

“Got a name?”

Blue eyes flashed at her in the dark before looking away again. “Toby.”

It was like pulling teeth. He’d been away from home a while, then. Long enough to lose trust in people.

She moved her jaw experimentally and paid for it. Without looking in the mirror she could tell it was turning into a lovely bruise. Great. She sometimes camped out in the SUV in a pinch, but they were going to need more solid shelter than that for the night.

First things first. The little twinkling yellow bits had faded from her vision enough she stood back up and started picking through the supplies in her kit. She pressed a mix of giant bandages and gauze over her shirt to sop up the blood, pausing every so often to take a drink of water. Awkwardly she worked the stretch bandage over her shirt and around her shoulder one handed, pulling as tightly as she could. It far from ideal, but all she needed was to be not obviously bleeding for thirty minutes or so. Her leather jacket went over that; and a scarf wrapped high enough would conceal the bruise spreading purple and ugly on her jaw.

She turned to consider the kid, staring patiently at a spot on the ground as she did her thing. Maybe he was grateful not to be with zombies or vampires, maybe he was grateful for getting the shackle off his ankle, and maybe he was a shifter. She wouldn’t know until she did the tests. Even supposing he was human, it wasn’t like she could just drop him off at home without some kind of de-brief—“hey, yeah, here’s your kid, vampires and zombies are real, they were holding him hostage and using him as bait.” 

Fuck.

Something of her frustration must have leaked through, because the kid was looking at her suspiciously again.

She headed off the question she felt was coming.

“We need to find a place to stay the night.” She looked at him critically, frowning. “You going to run off on me?”

Toby looked down, and picked restlessly at the threads of his frayed overcoat.

”No.”

She cast him a sharp look, because his “no” was not at all convincing. She got that, alright, but what the hell were their choices? The kid glanced up, and returned her suspicious stare with one of his own, blue eyes stubbornly bright in the darkness. She stared back for a moment, before she closed the back hatch of the Durango with a thump.

“Right. Come on then. Let’s go see if they’ve got any motels in this town.”

******

Toby was still in the car when she got back with the motel room key.

“Third floor. End of the hallway.” She said to him briefly, grabbing her duffel and weapons back out of the car with her good arm. “We good?”

They went up the stairs to avoid going through the lobby, but she had to stop once on the short climb, dizziness catching up with her. He paused when she stopped, something like worry furrowing his brows, the expression disappearing when she looked straight at him. Last she checked in the car’s mirrors, she didn’t look _that_ bad, although she could feel the wet ooze of blood soaking through the gauze wad she had hastily taped over her shoulder.

When they got to the room, it was bland and generic, a duplicate of one of thousands of the same scattered across the country. She was in the process of finding all the different light switches, and keeping an eye on the kid when he came to a halt in the entryway, staring at all the walls and furnishings like he had just walked onto an alien spaceship.

She didn’t press. Sometimes the thing to do with a great big wound was not go poking it to see if it hurt, because, guess what? It did.

She adjusted the heat settings on the thermostat.

“You fond of that coat?” She eyed the stinky maroon thing perfuming the warm room like a week full dumpster.

Toby’s face made the first real expression of the day, screwing up with revulsion.

“Give it here. We’ll get you something else tomorrow, but that gets at least washed tonight.” She wasn’t sure washing was going to be enough. Burning was probably preferable.

That brought up another problem though. Clean clothes for the kid. And food. And stuff.

Crap.

She adjusted the thermostat up another notch to uncomfortably warm, and fished one of her plain black T-shirts out of her duffel. “Go wash up. Wear this until we get your clothes clean in the laundry down the hall.”

Toby didn’t move. He was looking at her wounded shoulder, then meaningfully back at her again.

“I’ll keep. Had worse.” He still looked dubious. His confidence in her was inspiring. She managed an arch look. “I promise not to die while you’re in the shower.”

She had another belated thought. The kid had been amazingly independent so far, but who knew about these things?

“You going to be okay in there?” She nodded towards the bathroom with a question.

That earned her an eye-roll, as if he were the less likely of the two of them to have problems in the next half hour. He snagged the shirt out of her hand, and headed off to get cleaned up.

******

Her hand was around her dagger before the unfamiliar sound in the room sorted itself into muffled hiccups, coming from the next bed. A long sniffle pressed into the sheets followed.

Zee lay quietly in the dark, listening to the kid’s quick gulps of air for a minute before sitting up. The bed creaked as she moved, and the noises suddenly stopped, like a small wild creature tightening up with silence in the presence of danger.

Leaving the room light off, she navigated her way to the bathroom, her boots making silent footfalls on the carpet. She closed the door partway and let the water run for a minute. When she came back, she could see the pale shape of the kid’s head sitting up against the headboard in the dark.

She thumbed on the TV, using the remote secured to the nightstand. The pale blue glow illuminated the kid’s red nose.

“Couldn’t sleep?” She asked conversationally.

He plucked at the covers, fingering the clean sheets restlessly.

She nodded at the dog tags and a small metal amulet on a chain around his neck that had fallen out of the loose shirt as he tossed and turned.

“Your dad’s?”

The hand he put over the metal discs was immediate and protective. He tucked the tags back into his shirt carefully before nodding.

That certainly explained some things.

“Mmm.” She murmured. It was two in the morning, she had a million questions, but all she said was, “Scoot over.”

He did, not raising any objections when she sat down on top of the coverlet next to him and leaned back against the headboard, keeping her eyes on the TV. She flicked through the channels until she found something that was not shouting at her to call now for only $19.99 plus shipping and handling and reduced the volume to a low trickle of sound.

Sometimes the dark and the silence were the worst things.

After a while, there was a tug on her sleeve. She looked over at Toby’s pale face, white in the ghostly light of the television.

“She won’t find us?”

She turned sharply and gave him her full attention.

“She who?”

_She_ vampire? Or _She_ super-zombie?

“ _Mother_.”

It was a bad time for the kid to go cryptic on her. He’d been perfectly clear all evening, choosing pepperoni over sausage and not shy about his disdain for the pink sweatshirt she had snagged from the motel’s lost and found. In all honesty, she’d have ‘lost’ that sweatshirt too for the crime of color alone, but at least it was clean and warm.

‘Whose mother’ was a stupid question to ask, so she just squinted at him and waited for an explanation.

He worried at his lower lip and returned his attention to the TV, as if she’d just poked a sore spot. She eyed the stubborn set of his chin narrowly. He’d passed the tests, all of them—salt and silver and borax—without flinching or blinking or asking a singled question why.

She spoke in the direction of the television’s flickering light. 

“We’re two towns over. That’s pretty far for most monsters. But if we’re talking about vampires, and if they have your scent, then no. They’ll find us sooner or later.” She looked over at the shake of his head then. He wasn’t worried about the vampires.

_Jiminy Crickets._ He wasn’t worried about vampires.

She tried a different tack.

“Is it just Mother?”

Mother. Not Mom. Not said with any affection or longing. She assumed he wasn’t talking about his own mom. If the zombies had him on a find-and-retrieve program like a monster mafia, she could see why he wasn’t eager to lead them straight home.

He shook his head again.

“How many?”

He counted silently, and held up ten fingers, then eight.

She digested that information quietly.

“You know where they are?”

The look he gave her was pure alarm, followed by a vigorous shake of his head.

That was a clear lie.

She addressed the TV again.

“We’ll move again tomorrow. We need to get you some stuff anyway.” She caught his eye then, her look pinning. “And I don’t know. I won’t know until I know more about them.”

The kid stared right back at her, his eyes too hard for his age. She wasn’t sure what she should have said—something more reassuring, maybe. But it was hard to ignore the fact that zombies might very well be on their ass, and it would do no good to gloss it over.

She reached over for the backup burner she carried with her and programmed Garth’s number into it before handing it to him.

“Anything happens to me, you call this number, right? Then you hide and keep this on you until someone comes to help, got it?”

His hand wrapped around the phone tightly before tucking it under his pillow. That done, he glanced back up at her, another question creasing his forehead.

“What?”

“What do I call you?”

Zee thought back over the tumult of the last few hours. Guess introductions hadn’t been high on the to-do list.

“Zee.” She saw the disbelief that immediately flashed across his face. “Short for Zelda. It’s a real name.”

His quick glance went skeptically to her sword.

She gave him a narrow look and said. “If you’re thinking of the whole cape and mask routine, no.”

There was a whole bright argument fighting to get out behind his wide eyes.

“That,” she nodded at her sword sitting under the bed, “is a samurai sword, called a katana. Not a rapier. And I have never carved the letter Z into anything in my life.”

His face made an if-you-say-so expression if ever she saw one.

She raised an eyebrow and turned back to the TV. 

They sat together and watched the Enterprise go where no one had gone before until she felt the kid’s head bump softly against her right side. He had finally fallen asleep sitting up and leaning against her, breathing evenly if not deeply, sheer exhaustion overtaking worry for at least a few hours. He’d wake up if she moved, so she stayed still and closed her eyes, leaving the TV on. She didn’t know any lullabies, didn’t have any comforting words, so she let Captain Picard’s voice serve as a low murmuring buffer against the things that memory would bring in darkness.


	17. Can't Find My Way Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Blind Faith.

They made it through the MegaMart without anyone calling the cops on them, which was a minor miracle as far as Zee was concerned. The elderly checker had given them and their purchases a hard stare; because nothing said kidnapping like buying everything the kid needed in one go—new shirts, new socks, new shoes, new toothbrush, new backpack—yeah, there was nothing suspicious about that _at all._ It didn’t help that Toby was dwarfed by his oversized maroon overcoat still smelling faintly of dumpster, looking like his face could be on milk cartons everywhere. She could see the cashier’s hand itching towards the phone, when the kid caught the checker’s eye with an angelically sunny smile and moved a step closer to Zee in the process, lying without so many words. The checker’s face relaxed as she smiled back involuntarily.

Oh yeah, the kid had the bait thing down.

Ten steps they had made it out of the store when he pulled up abruptly by the store’s outdoor trash bin. What now? She stopped when he stopped, automatically tensing and sweeping the parking lot with a wary glance, but the kid simply shucked out of the grody overcoat and flung it violently into the trash. She watched the minor tantrum without a word. Searching through their shopping bags, she fished out the flock-lined denim jacket he had chosen for himself and waited as he put it on over the flamingo pink sweatshirt.

His stomach growled loudly enough for her to hear. It was nearly two in the afternoon. The store had taken longer than she’d anticipated. She opened her mouth to ask if he was hungry, aside from the obvious, and found him staring off and away from her, lips clamped resolutely shut, determined not to complain, silently holding his breath as if that would make his stomach growl less. 

So now they sat in a Biggerson’s, working their way through the kid’s menu. Toby was scarfing down his second cheeseburger in the hour, with a side of fries, and a side of mac n’cheese, and he didn’t look like he was stopping anytime soon. She stared at the top of his head, wondering what she was going to do with him.

Looking up at her prolonged scrutiny, he frowned at the look on her face. Awareness too keen for his years haunted his eyes. He put the cheeseburger down and set his face stubbornly.

“You can’t take me back.”

Zee blinked, startled at the way he read her mind. “Back where?”

Toby clamped his mouth shut again, as if he’d already given away too much.

Zee narrowed her eyes as the kid returned his full attention to his meal, avoiding the question. She got the feeling he wasn’t talking about either the vampires or the zombies, which meant there was someplace else he didn’t want to go. Great. As if this situation needed _more_ complications.

She rotated her left shoulder cautiously, wincing when pain shot down her arm. She supposed it could have been worse. He could have freaked the hell out this morning, watching her check her weapons. Instead he did nothing but stare with intense interest when she swapped out the useless bullets in the Glock for silver ones. Silver was normally a werewolf thing, but who knew?

His curiosity had gotten better of his caution when she checked her swords.

“Why do you need two?”

She had paused in the act of cleaning the blades, the familiar ritual of the morning interrupted. She held up the shorter of the two swords.

“When you’re not sure you need a sword, this one’s easier to hide.”

She set it down, and picked up the katana with both hands.

“This is better if you know you’re going into a fight, and you need a sword for sure.”

She slid the steel blade from the sheath and held it between them so he could get a good look.

“They’re very sharp. Don’t mess with them.”

He had nodded solemnly.

She had the shorter blade with her now, tucked unobtrusively against her side. Toby had watched her slip it into her jacket earlier without comment. He should have been too young to understand the value of being always armed, but there it was.

Finally he sat back, having cleaned his plate of burger and sides. The waitress materialized by their table.

“Dessert?”

He stole a look in her direction, eyes straying to the ice cream on the menu. Resolutely his lips tightened, and he shook his head, the hard edge of discipline settling on his features, reluctant to push the boundaries of her unknown tolerance.

She paid for their meal and stood. He stood when she stood, staying close, as if now that she’d fed him and clothed him, she might pin a note to his jacket and ditch him. It wasn’t like she hadn’t thought about it, but where the hell could she leave him, not knowing if this _Mother_ zombie was going to come looking for him? 

“Come on.” She said.

The kid stared at her, suspiciously.

“I’m not taking you ‘back’.“ She said impatiently, putting air quotes around the word, because she had no friggin’ idea where ‘back’ was. She flicked a look out the windows at the sunshine beating down on the day. They were probably safe enough from vamps during the day, but zombies? Not so much. She redirected her attention to the kid, and said meaningfully. “But we’ve got to keep moving.”

The kid wasn’t slow. He shot her one last careful look before he shrugged deeper into his jacket and took a step forward. She made sure he was following before she turned towards the door, and headed out of the restaurant. The hum of traffic on the adjacent thruway broke up the silence of the peaceful afternoon. She had parked a little ways away from the entrance, out of sight of the restaurant’s windows and away from prying eyes, just in case.

They spotted the shaggy figure lurking at the edge of the parking lot at the same time.

Her hand came down on Toby’s shoulder at the exact moment he tried to run, ready to high tail it to the other side of the parking lot. It was a good plan, except for the other figure loitering at the far end, sniffing at the parked cars.

Toby’s eyes were wide with fright when he looked up into her grim face.

The bulk of a truck and rig taking up four parking spaces hid the zombie from view of the restaurant’s windows. How it had found them was a good question. Why they were so keen on getting the kid back was another good question.

She measured the distance between the two ragtag figures and the big rig, slipping her sword free at the same time. She knew from the night before that there was no easy way to kill them, so the logical answer was simple.

Run.

She took Toby’s hand in hers and tugged him in the direction of the car. He resisted. There wasn’t time for this. She gave him a speaking look.

_Trust me or not. Now._

Baby blue eyes searched hers. 

Hesitantly, he gripped her hand back.

She quickly tapped the cell phone in his jacket pocket, and said soundlessly, “Remember.”

She bundled him into the passenger seat of the car and was coming around to the driver’s side door when she was spun abruptly around. A choking hand seized her by her neck, cutting off air. Her sword draw went straight through the zombie’s outstretched arm, severing it at the shoulder. It should have been enough. Instead, the fingers around her neck tightened with bruising force, and the breath she was trying to draw turned into a futile gasp. The zombie didn’t so much as blink as it leaned forward, used its other hand to hold the loose arm steady, and reattached itself. White-eyes slammed her hard against the vehicle, the hand locked around her neck crushing her windpipe.

Blackness flickered around the sunlight as air went away, the desperate pulling of her lungs useless against the constriction around her neck. She twisted against the choking hold futilely.

Don’t flail. Flailing is pointless.

Focus.

She brought her sword back down way too close to herself, re-severing the zombie’s arm just above the wrist. The cold whistle of her blade passed by her face as a breeze, and she forced herself to yield to the stranglehold and use it as leverage to get both feet up and kick the momentarily separated body, sending it stumbling back as she pulled up on the sword just before cutting into her own leg. She yanked the car door open, repeat of the night before, sword in, slide in, shooting the lock behind her by feel, only blind now because the hand was still attached and tightening mercilessly around her throat. She couldn’t breathe couldn’t see and everything was bright bright starry panic and queasy. The hand vibrated with impacts as Toby leaned forward and beat on it with the nearest thing that came to hand, a bottle of water.

Focus.

Her fingers found the lighter in her pocket, the shape of it familiar and the next action automatic. She brought the tiny flame shakily up, holding it to the severed hand under her chin. The smell of charred flesh filled the car. The dead fingers flinched and loosened, falling onto the gear console limply with the thumb still twitching.

She started the car by feel and had them moving at speed before she chucked the thing out.

Focus.

She was still trying to heave air in gulps, but the blurs of color resolved themselves into cars and the gray resolved into asphalt.

“Toby?”

“I’m okay.” His voice was high and shaky with adrenaline.

She nodded. In the rearview she could see the one-handed zombie lumbering to its feet. She couldn’t see the other one anymore. She stepped on the gas, peeling out of the parking lot with a squeal.

******

Never run in a straight line. It was too easy to track.

She crossed back on their path, put the car through two car washes on the way, and pulled into the outskirts of Schenectady in the mid-afternoon. They needed time. She needed time. To heal, to adjust, to sort out what the hell was going on.

Without question those things were after the kid with a vengeance, hot on his trail like hounds on a fox hunt. How? It was possible they were scenting their own—she hadn’t been shy about using the car as a weapon. The musty stench of decay was strong and clinging. They had to leave the windows cracked despite the biting cold for the better part of an hour after chucking the hand, the smell of the rotting black ooze that passed for zombie blood mixed with singed flesh pervasive and foul in the confines of the vehicle. To be on the safe side, they bought an eyebrow-raising number of air fresheners at the first car wash and lived with overpowering piney chemically fresh for the rest of the drive. 

And why? What was so special about this kid that they would go miles out of their normal hunting grounds to track him down? It was a harsh truth, but easier bait could be had, one that could be caught with less effort than trying to retrieve this one.

Toby stayed close to her during the check-in process, holding onto her hand on the way up to the motel room. She moved him from her right hand to her left, leaving her sword/gun arm free, watching as he noted the change and grasped the reason for it too quickly. Silently she flagged the exits closest to their room, the alternate escape routes, and pointed them out to him, one by one. In case of emergency, because emergency was a yap dog, nipping at their heels.

It was a crap way to grow up.

She locked and bolted the door behind them, do-not-disturb sign out front, and dumped a thick salt line across the doors and windows. She had no idea if that did any good against the undead, but any barrier was better than none. At the very least, it would cut down on the list of things they were dealing with at any one time.

That done, she turned back to Toby, still standing in the middle of the room with his new backpack, not having moved an inch from where she left him. His face was pale and his fingers cold.

Shock?

“Hey.”

She eased his backpack off and picked him up, sitting him on the short couch like he was a much younger child. She was unprepared when he suddenly wrapped both arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder, and broke into heaving sobs. She froze awkwardly at the sudden outburst, like a dam had burst and the stoic little hunter was suddenly a kid again, only seven or eight or nine or whatever he was, with a kid’s fears and a kid’s responses.

She let him cry it out, staying as still as a statue, afraid to disrupt the process.

It wasn’t long. Too much had happened to him to allow him to self-indulge in emotion for any length of time. With a last long snurfle he pulled back, rubbing at the tear tracks on his face awkwardly with his sleeve, not meeting her eyes, embarrassed by the breakdown.

She walked him over to the door, showing him the salt line.

“That keeps out the ghosts and the demons.”

He looked at her, hiccupped, and asked, “And the zombies?”

“I don’t know. But now we know fire hurts them, yeah?”

His eyes widened on a slow nod.

“You know how to use a lighter?”

He shook his head.

“Right. I’ll show you.”

They practiced until he got it to catch on the first try, and she handed him the spare out of her duffel. It wasn’t much, but unless she could find a child-sized flamethrower, it was going to have to do. 

The words came haltingly as he stowed the precious tiny weapon safely in his pocket opposite the cell phone.

“She caused the accident.”

Slowly Zee put the consecrated iron bullets back in her duffel and sat down. Toby was looking at a spot on the floor, but he kept talking.

“We were driving home. Then _she_ was there, in the middle of the road. Floating.”

_Mother_.

“Mom tried to avoid her. Then…”

His voice cracked with tears. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything and they told me I had to go live with Father Laughlin for a while and Mom was in a coffin and they wouldn’t let me touch her and I don’t remember the last thing Mom said to me or what she wanted me to do or…”

She didn’t know what she was doing, but her arms went around him and gathered him close, the hug unfamiliar and awkward. Huge sobs wracked his tiny frame again, gulps against her shoulder, tears wetting her jacket. In great gulps he cried out everything he had held in, his ever-present wariness cracking at last. 

She sat him on the couch again, leaning against her side as the next part of the story came tumbling out.

“She came. She talked to Father Laughlin. He said I had to go with my Aunt Deirdre. She was walking like a normal person. She was acting like a normal person. He wouldn’t believe me when I told him she was a monster. That she killed my mom.”

He was shaking with fury at this point, but his look was pleading. _You believe me, don’t you?_

She didn’t even need to nod. Been there, done that.

“She kept calling me Elias. Making me wear his old coat.”

Ah.

Toby fell silent, exhausted. They sat there in silence for a long time until Toby’s eyelids started to drift shut. Within minutes he was fast asleep.

Without a word, Zee picked him up and tucked him into bed.


	18. Rooster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Alice in Chains.

There were three messages from Garth sitting on her phone. 

If nothing else, the crazy pitter-patter of her movements on the GPS would have tipped him off that something was seriously wrong. The speed at which she was switching up locations read “getting my ass chased all over to hell and gone” more than “methodically tracking something down and killing it.” And Garth wasn’t a hunter for nothing. 

Zee stared at the screen. She figured she had less than three hours before Garth tried again, at which point she was either going to pick up or be saddled with reinforcements, and she wasn’t altogether sure reinforcements were a good idea. Hunters were a pragmatic lot; there were more than a few of them who wouldn’t be above parking Toby out for bait, again, just to flush Mother out of wherever she was holed up.

And considering they would be doing that over her dead body, she was really not keen on the idea.

Toby slept on through dinner, worn out. She watched the deep evenness of his breathing as he lay curled up in a tight ball beneath the covers. A shock of hair fell over his eyes. They would need to get that cut soon; the back ends now fell to his shoulder.

The unfamiliar consideration gave her pause. He’d finally given her enough information to go on—and what she had found was, in a word, problematic. Kathleen Donovan had crashed her car into a telephone pole three months ago, trying to avoid a floating zombie, leaving a sole surviving son. Toby. Lieutenant JG Matthew Donovan had been lost in action a year ago in Afghanistan. The county had sent Toby to Father Laughlin’s children’s home because they could find no other relatives.

She stared blankly at a spot on the wall. Getting Toby back to some semblance of normal, of family, was out. If this _Mother_ zombie went to the trouble of causing the accident and then claiming Toby from the children’s home once, she would do it again. The thing was psycho and fixated. The only way to make sure Toby was safe, was to get rid of the creature chasing him. 

Her lips tightened. Whether she liked it or not, Toby was the target, which was the same thing as bait. Whatever the word, he was in the crosshairs of the zombie horde. Getting rid of them wouldn’t be easy. Short of firebombing the zombie’s nest, which was a thought, there was no way she was going to be able to face down sixteen of those things and make it out in one piece. One of them was problem enough.

And then what? Even supposing she managed, by some miracle, to get rid of the zombies, she couldn’t put the kid back into the system. Even the kindest of intentions and the buffer of wealth were no protection against the things that haunted your sleep. The pleading in Toby’s voice when he had asked if she believed him was all too familiar.

Restlessly she stood, phone in hand. She needed help. Someone had to watch the kid, and it had to be someone who knew one end of a sawed-off from the other. And then there was no way to get out of telling Garth about the vampire eating zombies, and that was a red flag if ever there was one. If she bailed or failed, whoever got saddled with the mess would need to know. Hell, she needed to know what exactly Travis had found that prompted him to go to that spot in the first place. 

The phone in her hand vibrated. Garth’s check-in window had shrunk to two hours since his last call—he _was_ worried. She walked into the small bathroom and closed the door most of the way to keep from waking Toby.

“Garth.”

“Zee.” Garth breathed with relief. “Travis?”

“Not yet.” The odds were against him, but she didn’t know for sure.

“What’s going on?” Garth’s voice focused with concern. Her reputation for efficiency preceded her, in this instance, unfortunately. Any vagueness in her replies was going to tip Garth off.

“Zombies.”

“Contagious zombies?”

Zee paused to consider the things she knew.

“Don’t think so. Don’t know for sure.” She could feel the hairs on Garth’s neck standing up at the absence of information in her words. She took a silent breath before adding calmly. “Found them snacking on vampire.”

“WHA??” Garth’s voice shot up and intensified with alarm. He made a worried humming noise.

His response answered the question of if he’d ever heard of anything similar. Guess not.

“Travis update you at all?”

Garth made a despairing snort. That _was_ a long shot. “Witch?”

“Is there such a thing as a zombie witch?”

Garth inhaled. It sounded like an ugly combination even just saying it. Witches were bad enough by themselves.

“Never heard of one.” Garth’s reply was distracted. “We need to get you some backup.”

“Not Ferdie.”

There was a tiny pause as Garth considered her words. One, that things were bad enough she wasn’t arguing. Two, normally she had no problems with Ferdie, but nothing got between Ferdie and the target of the hunt. Collateral damage was something he accepted without blinking, in the name of the greater good.

“Right.” She could hear Garth thinking across the line. “Call you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

There was another pause from the other end at her conciliatory tone. “Zee?”

She was off pattern, and she knew it. She was probably setting off more alarms in Garth’s head with every word she uttered. She could sense he was on the brink of asking if things were okay before he thought better of it.

“Tomorrow.”

“Yep.” She disconnected before she could give anything more away. She had a few more calls to make.


	19. Turn the Page

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from song by Metallica.

She should have been driving west. There were zombies out there that weren’t getting any deader, and a job that wasn’t getting any doner.

But instead she was heading south, because she’d taken one glance at the tight-lipped kid sitting in the backseat of her Durango, and made an impulsive turn onto 88. It’d take a day, Garth had said, to round up some backup, and her shoulder was still too sore to use effectively anyway. It’d do them good, to get some distance from Dolgeville, and that was why she was headed south, putting some distance between them and this mysterious _Mother_ , and her tracker zombies.

Those were all the logical reasons. Rhyme and reason, all of it good and sound. But the truth was, she’d been down this road, and yes, the safest thing to do would be to go to ground, find a place to hole up and lay low until whatever help Garth found showed up, but that felt wrong. It felt wrong in her gut, like they’d be crawling into the darkness and prolonging the nightmare, and most nights Toby slept badly enough as it was. So she took the turn south, away from the job, away from all the places they’d been, and watched the tense line of the kid’s shoulders relax as he realized they weren’t headed back the way they came.

Still, there were some things she hadn’t counted on. She hadn’t expected the indecipherable expression that crossed Toby’s face when she pulled into Cooperstown in the late afternoon. She kept an eye on him as she drove down the main drag, past cheerfully lit shops and tourists, kids his age and their parents, and she couldn’t tell if this had been a good idea or not. He didn’t react when they went past the Baseball Hall of Fame. She frowned. Well, in all honesty, she had no idea if he would be into baseball or not. He was a small boy. What did small boys do if they didn’t play baseball?

She drove towards the lake, revising her plans on the fly. A resort hotel caught her eye, sheltered behind an elaborate iron fence. The expanse of water behind the hotel was perfect, giving visibility for miles across the water. The rolling green of the adjoining golf course and its smooth cover of snow would show any incoming tracks from unusual directions. Toby sat up as she took the turn past the ornate gates and down the long driveway, pulling in beneath the high portico. There was a question on the tip of his tongue but he held silent.

She slipped the SUV into park and waited as the valet came around to open the door. Toby followed her lead, grabbing his backpack as she snagged her duffel with her good arm. She handed the keys to the valet as if she did this every day, ignoring the sidelong glances that came her way. Dressed severely in black like she was, she stood out, much more so than Toby; there was nothing to be done about that. A place like this got all sorts, and with enough money, you got upgraded from weird to eccentric. She was used to it, but Toby stayed unusually close to her, navigating around the furniture in the lobby gingerly like their clawed feet might trip him up at any moment.

When the porter had closed the door behind him, Toby did a full 360 to take in the view from the corner suite, on the top floor of the hotel’s west wing. 

“Are you rich?”

Zee spared him a glance as she inspected the locks on the balcony doors.

“Hmm. We’re not running a scam being here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He let out a breath. The resort was quite a jump up from the motels they had stayed at the last two nights, where it was easier to blend in, remain anonymous, and be forgotten. Here, sticking out like a sore thumb among the bright floral drapes and polished antique furnishings, anonymity was a lost cause. It was easy to see why Toby thought they could be tossed out on their rears any second.

Toby wove his way around yet more furniture to her side and looked out over the lake with her.

“You can see clearly in three directions.” She pointed out. “And water is good; water hides scent and is hard for most things to cross.”

Toby swallowed this information. “We’re safe?”

She looked out across the shimmering expanse of blue before them. The day was calm, and the water lay still. It should have been easy to just answer yes to his question, except that would have been a lie. She hedged.

“We should have lots of warning. It’ll be harder for any of our shaggy friends to sneak up on us here. Unless they’re smart enough to stick to the path, their tracks will show in the snow.”

He poked his head out the window and looked around, checking out the pier and the beached paddleboats.

“We passed the Hall of Fame.”

He had noticed. Maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

“Would you like to go?”

Toby looked undecided. Absently he fingered the chain beneath his shirt before replying. “Dad always wanted to.” Long pause. “He liked the Red Sox.”

She made a mental note to expand her search for relatives to the Boston area.

“Well, come on, then. Let’s go check it out.”

******

They bought a Red Sox cap at the museum, but Toby was jumpy. He moved from display to display with polite interest, but he shied away from other people, other children especially, until his behavior was noticeable and started to attract questioning looks of its own. Zee tucked the newly bought cap over his head, and knelt down by him as he stood in front of a wooden statue of Ted Williams, staring up into the painted face as if asking for answers.

“Had enough?”

His nod was miserable. She took him by the hand as they walked to the car, and he didn’t pull away out of embarrassment, even when some other little brats pointed and snickered. He got in the car somewhat dejectedly and muttered, “Sorry.”

She stood in the open doorway of the vehicle and cocked her head.

“Whatever for?”

“It was supposed to be fun.”

Zee’s eyebrows lifted. “If you like baseball.”

Toby stared out the other window. His hand went unconsciously over his heart again, fingers tapping.

She caught her breath. Stupid. It might have been fun with his Dad. And being here, seeing other the other kids with their parents, was a reminder of the things he’d lost. Painful. Her lips twisted with self-deprecating insight. It was foolish to think she could do this. There was a whole lexicon of normal out there she had no understanding of. How was she ever going to provide it?

She turned her head away, the feeling of loss unexpectedly catching in her throat. Schooling her expression to neutral, she reached across him for the seat belt and buckled him in though he was perfectly capable of doing it himself.

“Hungry?”

Toby shook his head.

Zee straightened, thinking hard. What she should do, was go back to the hotel room and look for any relatives he might have in the Boston area. Her search had turned up nothing so far, but maybe she just hadn’t cast the net wide enough. What she needed to do, was read through the case files sitting in her email inbox. What she did was make another call, closing the car door behind her.

******

The Farmer’s Museum was closed for the winter, the buildings snug and nestled in the foot deep snow. As they pulled into the empty parking lot, a heavily bundled figure came out to greet them, followed by a frisky black and white border collie.

“Zee.”

“Tom. I appreciate you taking the time for this.”

“Of course.” A gentle smile creased his round face as he peered around her. “Is that the kid?”

They shook hands as Toby clambered out of the car, looking around curiously at the deserted fields and paddocks. The border collie ran up to Toby, sniffing enthusiastically and curiously before putting her paws up gently on his shoulders and giving his face a long lick. Toby stood stock still as the dog’s wet tongue laved his cheek. With one cautious hand, he reached out and scratched the white spot between the black ears, and was rewarded with more licking.

“Daisy! Down!” Tom commanded sharply.

The dog’s front paws came down to the ground as she gave her owner an innocent look before she went back to head butting Toby’s midriff for more scratches.

“Sorry.” Tom apologized. “We’re working on her.”

Toby had both hands in Daisy’s fur now, scratching between her ears and along her neck, his attention totally absorbed by the dog’s brown eyes, twisting and tilting her head to get the scratching hands to all the places she itched. Another bout of licking followed until Toby laughed and pushed at the dog to get her tongue off his face. Daisy wagged her tail with more enthusiasm than brain before giving Toby another bump hard enough to knock him a step backwards.

“Daisy!” Tom said sternly.

“It’s okay.” Toby had his hand buried in the dog’s ruff, the hint of a smile on his face as he looked down at Daisy’s head.

Zee shifted, the chill of the outdoors biting her cheeks.

“Come on. Tom’s going to show us the Cardiff Giant.”

******

Tom showed them around, his soft voice explaining the workings of the farm buildings, the old tools, the museum displays put away for the winter. Toby’s attention wandered, as did Zee’s, until she caught Tom’s amused smile as he ended their tour in the warm barn. The resident calico took one look at them as they trooped into the building, stamping snow noisily from their shoes, and put her nose up in the air, jumping to a higher beam. Toby watched the cat make the elegant leap, perking up, finding the barn’s denizens considerably more interesting than the Cardiff Giant (which was mostly harmless except the one day of the year it needed to be spritzed with Holy Water to keep it quiet). They spent most of the afternoon in the barn looking at the first new lambs, Daisy constantly butting up against Toby’s side, her head finding a place under his hand. 

Tom’s wife Sue and his son Brian joined them later in the afternoon, Tom sweeping Toby up into the routine of chores needing to be done, insisting they stay for dinner as “payment” for Toby’s help. Zee hung back silently, letting the talk and laughter flow around her.

Sue caught her to one side after the meal as the kids were absorbed in some video game involving cars. Zee paid tangential attention to the red and green cars on the screen. The graphics really were very good. Sue’s gaze settled on Toby, showing her young son some trick with the game they were playing.

“He’s welcome to stay with us, if you want.”

Maybe Sue had sensed something of the situation even though Zee had said very little. Zee looked over at Toby, sitting cross-legged on the rug, Daisy’s head in his lap, his attention completely absorbed by the action on the TV screen.

The solution made so much sense. The kid needed normal, normal like this. He needed to be out of the life, before the life became his new normal.

Except for one thing. _Mother_.

They were still too close. Whether _Mother_ was a witch or her zombies were just darn good trackers, she would likely find Toby so long as she was still obsessed with him. Zee had come too far relying on her instincts to dismiss them now. And they were screaming.

“Thanks. I may take you up on that. But later.”

Sue nodded, reaching out to place a hand on her arm, meant as warm and reassuring. Zee steeled herself against reacting to the touch, the reflex of contact as prelude to combat lying just beneath the surface of her skin. And maybe that showed too, because Sue removed her hand as quickly as the touch was brief, pity and understanding in the kind regret that crossed her face.

Toby looked up and over at them. Sue moved away, collecting the dishes from the table.

Toby put down the console suddenly, ignoring Brian’s whoops of victory as the green car crashed off course into the wall on the screen. Daisy’s head came up to attention, her ears perking at the change in atmosphere. Toby gave her a distracted scratch between the ears, not taking his eyes off Zee, a question in them.

It only took a tiny sideways tilt of her head. Toby stood, said something to Brian, and came over to her side, ready to go.

“Thank you for dinner.” His manners were meticulous as he addressed Sue.

Sue put down the stack of plates she was carrying. She gathered him up in a hug, squeezing tightly, not even having to think about it. 

“You’re very welcome, Toby. Come back anytime.”

Sue looked up at Zee as she said the words.

Tom walked them out to the car, Daisy at his heels. Toby gave her a last pat on the head before climbing in.

“Sue talk to you?” Tom asked quietly after she closed the passenger door.

“Yes.”

Tom glanced briefly at Toby before turning his attention to Daisy. His voice was low to avoid carrying.

“It’d be good for Brian too, to have someone who understands around.”

Zee nodded acknowledgement of that fact. “I appreciate it.”

Tom looked at her directly then, “Anytime. We owe you.”

Zee smiled faintly. “No, you don’t. It’s my job.”

The older man shook his head. “Nothing that easy.”

Tom shook himself and stepped back, waving at Toby through the window. Daisy yipped a quiet goodbye.

******

Toby was silent as they made their way to the room. She was setting the locks on the door when he came to a stop between a wing chair and a low table, blurting suddenly, “You can’t leave me with them.”

Zee took a second’s pause before she turned around to face him.

“How’d you figure that?”

The look he gave her was a mix of _oh-please_ and _adults-are-so-lame_.

“She’ll find me.”

_Mother_. It was too much to hope that the threat had faded from his mind, even a little bit.

“She’ll kill them.”

His lip trembled. His hands balled up into fists and he was breathing hard, on the edge of helpless frustration, trembling with it. One fist punched down weakly through the air in a gesture of futility. He looked up at her, memories too strong in his thin face, haunted in his eyes.

“What if she takes Brian?”

Zee stayed where she was as the words were torn from him.

“What if she takes another kid?”

It was something she had already considered. She _had_ been hunting too long, but the scenario was a plus/minus one. On the one hand, it meant _Mother_ would no longer be hunting Toby, which was one less problem. On the other, it meant she needed to find _Mother_ sooner rather than later, which was a bit difficult with Toby around. Six of one, half dozen the other. It was hard to say what was the priority.

He spun on his heel, facing away from her. She could see the determined set of his chin as his hands fisted and re-fisted, struggling with a decision. His right hand went over his chest again, tapping on the dog tags resting against his heart. His voice was low when he spoke again.

“She’s at the old sawmill.”

Zee didn’t move. Toby turned again, and stared at her, anxiety and stubbornness making a curious mix on his face.

“I’ll show you where.”

Dispassionately, part of her brain kicked into action, looking forward; planning strategy and attack with the cool equilibrium ingrained by habit. This was the job, where things were straightforward and real. Find the monsters, kill the monsters. It was all clean edges and action, just a matter of having a clear picture of what needed to happen and following through.

She looked at Toby standing there, the brim of tears held in check in his eyes, lower lip pushed firmly into the upper, chin and shoulders set and squared, sitting as hard as he could on his fears, a tremble on the edge of bursting loose. He planted his feet more firmly on the blue carpet, vibrating with emotion.

She couldn’t afford emotion. It was a handicap. If she did her job, he would be safe. She just needed to park him somewhere, with Tom and Sue, maybe, now that she knew where Mother was holed up. She could take out the nest with a little planning now that she knew fire was the trick. Probably. She needed to test that; make sure it really was the ticket—flaming, pissed off and still grabby zombies would be a bitch. There was that thing in the lore about staking them to their grave beds with silver stakes, but staking that many of them…she was running over her options, back in the groove of the hunt when a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“I’m going with you.”

What?

“What?” she stared Toby down, not sparing him because he was only three feet and change, too young for it. She had stared down fully-grown hunters with that look, but the kid stared right back.

“I know where they are.”

“You just told me.” She snapped.

“There’s more than one old sawmill around here.”

“I’ll work it out.”

“You can’t leave me with them. She’ll come for me. They’ll be in danger.”

Fuck shit fuck. That was the one hole in her plan. He knew it. She knew it. And he knew she knew it. He was, what, eight on a good day? Dangnabbit. She hadn’t even asked or paid attention when she was looking at his bio. It wasn’t relevant to the job. And here she was, bested by a babe with years on his shoulders that didn’t belong there, trapped in a logical argument she couldn’t get out of.

For the second time in days, frustration leaked through as she narrowed her eyes at him.

“I won’t slow you down.”

Oh, for crying out loud. As if that was what she was worried about. She kept the stare from turning into a glare by the narrowest margin. Her lips thinned as she tried to think things through.

“We’ll leave in the morning.”

He stared at her dubiously, untrusting.

“Go shower and get ready for bed. You need sleep.” Her words were sharp and curt, lacking in patience. He would be so much better off with Sue.

He stayed where he was, still looking at her, shining with mistrust.

“Fine. I promise not to ditch you between now and tomorrow morning. Just get ready for bed, yeah? I need to plan.”

His relaxation was fractional.

She flexed her left shoulder experimentally and grit her teeth. “If you don’t trust me, trust the shoulder. I won’t be picking any fights for at least a few days.”

He looked at her pained wince before begrudgingly moving towards his backpack for his things. Great. Just great. Her bum shoulder was apparently more trustworthy than her word.


	20. We Don't Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Bon Jovi.

They were packing up the next morning when her phone buzzed.

Garth spoke before she even got a word out.

“Now, Zee. I want you to be calm about this." Garth opened in his most mollifying voice.

Her attention sharpened at Garth’s tone.

"Who'd you call, Garth?"

"I thought maybe we needed the big guns for this."

"Garth."

Garth paused like he was taking a deep breath before speaking. Zee tensed, mentally running through possible options. Worse than Ferdie. Who was worse than Ferdie?

"You know they’re the best, Zee. Dean's got a little demon thing going on right now, what with the First Blade and all. But with vampire eating zombies, we need the big kahunas, the heavy hitters. Sam said they would be there in two days. Zee? Zee?"

She hung up on Garth before swear words could pop out, and slowly set the phone down.

_Bloody Effin’ Hell._ The Winchesters. She wasn’t expecting that. She knew Garth knew them, of course. It was Dean Winchester who had put the word out for him after Garth got bit, that anyone going after Garth just on account of his being a werewolf answered to him. She'd seen Garth after he became a were, or lycanthrope, as he preferred. He seemed enough still Garth and peaceable she'd let it pass. 

The boys’ reputation preceded them. She had no doubt they could manage whatever it was that was the monster here in Dolgeville. But was Garth _insane_? Ferdie’s definition of collateral damage was downright _twee_ compared to the kind of apocalyptic destruction that followed the Winchester boys around. It may have been true they never _meant_ for any of it to happen, but that didn’t change that it did. Regularly.

She stood abruptly. On a scale of one to going really badly, this job took the cake. For a moment she wondered if she actually needed to be there to pass the baton. Maybe she could just call them, hand it off over the phone, take Toby and hit the road. Maybe if she drove far enough, long enough, Mother would forget about him and fixate on some new kid. Maybe if she went completely to ground, she could make sure he was safe.

Toby came out of the bathroom, his hair sticking up in spikes as he ran an ineffective hand through it, looking around for his jacket. He took one look at the expression on her face and froze.

She looked at the kid staring back at her, his blue eyes keen and wary, sensing danger.

Nowhere would be far enough.

Until Toby knew for certain _Mother_ was taken care of, dusted, toasted and gone, she would always be a shadow around the bend, something lurking in the darkness ahead. He would always be on edge, watching for things that moved a little different, slithered out from corners, and got you when you least expected it.

Zee swore quietly in her head, trying to clear her face of expression. She wasn’t feeling calm enough to project calm. She was rattled, and she didn’t like it.

“What?” Toby’s one word was a panicked demand.

Indecision slowed her reply.

“That was a buddy of mine.” She stalled. “Some hunters are coming to help.”

Instead of relief, Toby looked dubious.

“You’re leaving?”

You. Not we. He was quick to assume the things she hadn’t said. Tom and Sue would take him in. She would stay in the area and keep an eye on him until the boys cleared the nest, things were squared, and then be on her way. It was chicken shit to sit out a fight this way, but it was the best plan.

“No. Not entirely.” She hedged. “They’re very good, the people who are coming. They’ll take care of Mother.”

His lip set stubbornly.

“They don’t know.”

Her smile was humorless. If the stories were true, there was very little that the Winchester boys hadn’t run across in one form or another over the years. A zombie nest shouldn’t be a problem for them; never mind if the rumors about Dean Winchester were true. Still, stuff slipped through the cracks. Collateral damage happened. It was up to her to make sure it didn’t happen to Toby.

“She’ll eat them alive. Like she did the other one.”

Zee looked at him hard. “What other one?”

“The other guy. The one with a machete.”

“Tall, blond, cowboy hat?”

Toby nodded, eyes shut tight against the images on the inside of his eyelids.

Zee breathed deep. It wasn’t a stretch to know that was what had happened to Travis, but the memory of the agony in the vampire’s screams lingered in her mind. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone. 

Toby began to shake. With fear or anger or terror, it was hard to tell. Zee crossed the room to him, and put hands on his shoulders to settle him down.

“These other guys have a lot more experience. They’ll be fine.”

An uneasy feeling swamped her again; the sense of words going against her gut. She tried to reason her way through it. The Winchesters were in a pay grade all their own; like Garth said, the big kahunas. They would be fine.

“They won’t know.” Toby repeated.

She sat him down next to her, one arm around his shoulders to stop the tremors. He leaned into her, pressing tight against her side, trying to draw warmth. He clamped his hands together, trying to stop the shaking.

She tried to think. Critically. Rationally. The things she knew she could tell the boys on the phone, it was so little. The fact that the zombies didn’t go down easy was a problem. She had no idea if just the two of them were enough to face all sixteen or so zombies at once, if an extra pair of hands would help. No idea what it meant that Dean Winchester was a Knight of Hell. A _demon_. Despite what Garth had said, was it possible he would go the other way and help the zombies instead of hunting them?

Thinking was really not helping. The headache of trying to predict what the Winchesters would do was starting to make her original plan of firebombing the nest look simple and attractive. And that original plan was risk in a gift basket. But, then again, maybe. If she were careful. The upside to it was she was in control; not dependent on the whim of a demon to keep Toby safe.

Control was good. It was the only sure thing around.

“Give me your phone.”

Toby examined her face carefully before he complied. She didn’t know what he saw when he looked, but she must have passed muster because the burner was in her hand.

She keyed a second number into the phone and hit save.

“Anything goes south on this, you call both of them, yeah?”

Toby’s nod was solemn. He couldn’t quite hide the scared, but it was laced with pure grit. Lieutenant Donovan would have been proud.

“Alright.” She stood with determination now that their course was set. “Let’s figure out where we’re going.”


	21. Here Comes Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Bad Company.

Getting a hold of the C4 she needed was not a problem. Having Toby along, however, made the usual process interesting.

Everyone wanted to talk. It was like she had this new speaking appendage attached to her by the hip. Toby had questions. People had answers. He had questions at the tactical supply store. He had questions for Mack when he dropped off the C4. He developed an unhealthy interest in the dagger Mack carried concealed, the hilt of it showing above Mack’s boot when he bent down to retie his laces.

“What kind of knife is that?”

Mack blinked. Stopped. Turned to face Toby head on.

She was used to Mack being kind of brusque. So she was surprised when Mack took the knife out of his boot and held it out to Toby, hilt first.

“It’s a tactical dagger. Some folks call it a combat dagger.”

“My Dad had one like this.” Toby’s voice was quiet, not touching the offered hilt. Then some uncertainty crept into his voice. “I think.”

“Your Dad a Marine?”

“SEAL.”

“Then it was probably a SOG blade. They’re a little longer and wider. Remember?”

Toby frowned, concentrating. “Maybe.”

She finally went over the case files in the evening, after getting them settled in Utica. It was a bit of a drive, but she wasn’t taking any chances. The sawmill Toby had in mind was not far from where she had originally found him, but the site of the car accident was. Mother had taken some pains to get specifically him, thinking he was her Elias. 

Toby abandoned the television and pulled up a chair.

“Whacha reading?”

“Files.”

“What files?”

She reminded herself he was eight.

“Files.”

“On the zombies?”

She looked up at him. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not. Go watch TV.”

“TV’s boring.”

She tried to remember what being eight was like. She was pretty sure she hadn’t talked this much. She closed the laptop and pulled out the map.

“Fine. Let’s go over this again.”

Toby stared at the map with distaste. They’d been over it and over it until he claimed could repeat what he was to do in case of emergency backwards, upside down, and standing on his head.

“Where’d you learn to use your swords?”

“Sword school. What’s the first thing you do?”

“Run. Speed dial the numbers. Get to the car. Lock the doors. Why are you always checking them when you haven’t used them?”

“It’s a routine. You make sure your tools are in good shape. What do you do if you can’t get to the car?”

“Hide. Try to mask my smell. What if I can’t find a dumpster?”

“This is why you shouldn’t come with me. No dumpsters in the woods.”

Toby just gave her his disbelieving look.

“What if they get you?”

Her answer was dry. “The plan is to avoid that.”

“I have the flare gun.”

“Which you use, if you can’t get to the car, if you can’t hide. You only get one shot. You use it and you run.”

This was going to be a sticking point. It was entirely worth avoiding capture because she would bet money Toby would not do what he was told.

“Why can’t I save you?”

“Because you’re eight.”

A pout formed. “I can shoot straight.”

“Yes. You can. But you only have one shot. I can’t be worried about you if you’re going to come with me.”

The pout developed stubborn lines. He changed the subject.

“Where is sword school? Can I go?”

“Far away. Maybe.”

“Do they teach you how to throw a knife like Mack?”

“Not really.”

“Can you throw a knife like Mack?”

“Yes. How do you get away if you’re caught?”

“Pick the lock.”

“Show me again.”

They’d spent a day on that alone. Complicated locks he couldn’t do, but a basic padlock wouldn’t be a problem for him. 

He tucked the pick back into the lining of his jacket when they were through and yawned.

“Go get ready for bed.”

He stared at her hard, blue eyes fierce. “Promise you’re not going to leave me here tomorrow?”

He wouldn’t sleep if she didn’t say yes convincingly. It was only a scouting run, but she already didn’t like it. She didn’t want to put him in harm’s way, but the safest place for him was by her side. Her voice was tight on the promise she wanted badly to break.

“I promise.”

******

“Ugh. Zombies. Why does it have to be zombies? I hate zombies. They’re creepy.”

Dean looked out the window with a scowl on his face. Sam downshifted as he pulled up behind a truck towing a horse trailer. The snow-covered countryside was quiet as they rolled through Ohio. He looked sideways at Dean’s unhappy profile in the passenger seat and said nothing.

The car was silent except for the sound of slush beneath the tires. It had been a while since Dean took the wheel. Since Geary, actually. At first he hadn’t made anything of it. Driving gave him something to do, other than brood. The idea that Dean was actively avoiding driving was so foreign that it wasn’t until Dean suggested they stop for the night instead of driving straight through to that job in San Pedro, trading time in the driver’s seat like they always had, that Sam twigged to something being up. 

Dean didn’t need sleep. So why on earth were they stopping?

They stopped and he didn’t ask. It was one thing on a long list of things he learned not to ask about. After Elijah’s, even Crowley had given them a wide berth. There was no question in Sam’s mind about who was at the top of the demonic pecking order. Not anymore.

“I mean, I get zombies are the new vampire, but seriously, they’re gross.”

That much was true. Zombies were a _pita._ There was so much stuff in the lore about how to kill them that it always came down to trial and error, which was no fun when you were being chased by the putrid undead. What Garth had said about these zombies, though.

Ghosts and gremlins were one thing. This was bigger fish. Sam swallowed uneasiness. He hoped this wasn’t a mistake. 

The truck in front of them slowed to a crawl going around a bend. Sam downshifted to accommodate the change in speed, looking ahead for a place to pass.

“Garth say anything else?”

Sam shook his head. Garth’s information had been skimpy. But a hunter needed their help, and after all the people they had lost in the last few months, it seemed wrong to say no. So he’d said yes and watched Dean give him a slow, measuring look.

_Do you really trust me now, Sammy?_

He blinked and focused, concentrating on the fact Dean _had_ turned around when he’d called to him back in Elijah’s bar. Whatever Dean had been looking at, beyond human sight, the First Blade clutched in his hand, Dean had turned around. 

That was all that mattered. He would do anything, anything at all, if it meant he could keep Dean from tipping over into the darkness.


	22. No One Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Scorpions.

There was a black Durango SUV already parked by the side of the road at the coordinates Garth had given them. Dean scowled at the shallow dent on the front fender of the vehicle like it offended him. 

“I thought Garth said this Zee person would be in Utica.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe she came back.”

They stood on the edge of a forest, open field on one side, dense tree cover on the other. The field was damp with snow and mud, sodden and gray in the afternoon light.

“Anything?”

Dean shook his head. He looked at the tracks in the mud beside the vehicle and frowned.

“Fresh?”

His brother nodded. Sam stayed quiet for a moment before moving to the trunk of the Impala and grabbing the flashlight and silver stakes, throwing them into a small shoulder pack. The angel blade he carried all the time now bumped against him.

He looked up at Dean, still frowning at the tracks.

“What?”

Dean shook his head.

“Nothing.”

Sam raised both brows skeptically and went to see for himself.

Huh.

There were two sets of tracks, one set much smaller than the other. Child-sized footprints.

They traded a glance.

“Maybe just coincidence?”

Even as he uttered the words, Sam knew they had an empty feel to them. There was no such thing as coincidence in their world. Only really bad luck.

“Hmph.” Dean had that absent look on his face again, listening to things other than sound. “Come on. This way.”

******

Two shadowy figures moved in the trees up ahead. Their footfalls rustled clumsily, the brush of dry leaf against leaf loud to his ears. Dean held up one fisted hand for Sam to stop. Sam’s foot came down silently as he went totally still.

Dean squinted at the shapes up ahead. Whoever or whatever it was was small, one shadow the size of a child hugging the side of the other. He didn’t _sense_ anything, but then again, you never assumed anything with zombies. The taller figure of the two had a shape. It tugged at his memory, and he looked harder.

Her.

The First Blade came automatically into his hand in reaction as he stepped forward and out into the small clearing, leaves crunching underfoot with his sudden movement. She spun around at the sound, her but not her, nothing like _her_ , dressed head to foot in black, jeans fitted to the sweet curve of her hip, looking lethal and deadly with that Kill Bill sword at her side. Amber eyes swept him from head to foot, flicked to Sam, dismissed Sam, as she squared up opposite him, long sword flashing out between one blink and the next, pointed right at him.

“ _What_ are you?” He strode forward as he barked the question. He heard Sam moving up beside him, trying to temper his manners, but he shook Sam off with a small motion of his free hand.

She looked him over again. The hand he had around the First Blade tightened at the lack of recognition in her eyes, looking at him as if he were a complete stranger, no trust in them at all. What kind of game was she playing? And what the hell was… he looked at the blond shadow by her side…that? A kid? What did she think she was doing, hunting in the woods with a kid? Assuming it was a human kid?

He had doubts. He shifted his weight to his back foot, preparing for a fight, antsy with questions. He was annoyed when she mirrored his movements, moving to her right as he moved to his left, stepping to keep herself between him and the kid. As if he were the danger here. Bright blue eyes from the kid looked up at him underneath blond bangs a month overdue for a haircut, wary suspicion in them.

“Dean Winchester.”

God, that voice. It _was_ her. He would know her voice anywhere, never mind the rest of her. His eyes narrowed on her face. It was her, or her evil, evil twin. He couldn’t be sure she was human unless he _looked_ , but demon sight was sluggish, almost evasive, when he reached for it. All he could see was her, the long sweep of her lashes over cool eyes, the curve of her lip pulling taut on his name. Not warm. Not remotely friendly.

He glared at her tone and the point of the samurai sword in her hands. Who used those things, anyway? They were bulky and awkward to carry compared to a machete. He made some allowance for the fact she only came up to his chin, and maybe the reach of the sword helped, but still.

“ _What_ are you?” He asked again. He was bristling, menacing, probably freaking the kid out, but _she_ was trouble. That much he knew.

“Dean.” Sam’s hand came down on his arm, restraining. Dean shook him off impatiently. He wasn't out of control in a berserker rage. Nor was he the one who’d had a personality transplant, and turned into some kind of diminutive feral ninja. 

Of course Sam was the one who put two and two together and got five when Sam said, “Zee?”

Oh, no way. No friggin’ way.

“Sam.”

She said it without sparing a look at Sam. She knew who they were, then. She knew Garth had sent them. And there she was, holding them off with the point of her sword as if they were the enemy, the monsters.

Oh, wait.

The hilt of the First Blade felt warm in his hand.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief beside him. He didn’t have to turn his head to know Sam had warmed up his friendly smile.

“You know Garth. He sent us.”

She didn’t budge, didn’t take her eyes off him. Her tone was curt when she replied.

“Everyone knows Garth. Being a were hasn’t fixed his problem of hugging strays.”

If it had been possible for his hackles to rise any more, they would have stood straight up and quivered. He stopped short of a growl at her words, only because they were true. Any hunter worth their salt would be a fool to trust him just on Garth’s say so, maybe especially on Garth’s say so. Whether that was because Garth was a werewolf or because Garth was a hugger was dealer’s choice.

Sam stepped forward, putting himself between their weapons at his own peril. She didn’t move, didn’t lower her sword point at all. Dean bristled all over again. He was about to pull Sam back when something tickled the far edge of his perception.

“What?” Her question was short and sharp, picking up on his faint shift in attention.

How was she doing that? Sam knew the nuances of his expression because Sam had grown up with him, but she was somehow picking them up even though he knew he hadn’t moved his facial muscles a titch.

Sam’s head turned to him at her words, automatically accepting her lead as valid. Dean shushed the pair of them with a finger, listening to the distance.

Something, an ebb, a pull, tugged at him. Not just one. A few of them. And not moving away like any smart monster would do when he was in the vicinity. Moving towards them.

Intent.

“What’s hunting you?” He snapped the question without looking at her, not bothering to explain how he knew.

He could see her eyes narrow with suspicion at his question.

“Zombies. I thought Garth briefed you.”

“Vampire eating zombies.” He repeated, icing the words over with skepticism.

Her lips flattened at his tone. He went on.

“Kill any yet?”

“Dean!” Sam interceded, glancing at the kid’s rapt attention. He ignored Sam. Two more whatever-it-was had joined the pack in the distance.

“No.” Her tone was flat as she ignored Sam also. “They reassemble.”

“What, like Terminator?”

“Minus the shapeshifting.”

Dean swore profusely. “Head shot?”

She shook her head.

“You’re sure.”

She made a be-my-guest gesture at him.

“Sam, get them out of here.”

The feral ninja shot him a guarded look. “Won’t work. They’re after Toby.”

“Dean.” Sam said warningly at the same time, catching his intent.

“There’s too many of them.” He spoke while looking off into the distance. Ten at his last count. Ten. Then he came back to the conversation. “What do you mean they’re after Toby?”

She looked at him like he was impossibly dense and repeated unhelpfully. “They’re. After. Toby.”

She leaned slightly to one side, indicating the kid, like he wouldn’t have figured that out by now.

Demon sight came instantly to hand when he looked at the kid, and the kid jerked back as Dean’s eyes went full black looking at him. Human. No question about it.

And now he was also holding her sword point away from his throat idly with the First Blade, not even trying.

“Put that away. I’m not going to hurt him. I just needed to see.”

The sight faded when he looked at her, slipping from his grip like a slippery eel. Not that she cared. There was still some force to the steel blade pressing against the jawbone in his hand.

“Zee. It’s okay.”

For once it was nice to see Sam trying to calm someone else down.

She eased up reluctantly, more because she was getting nowhere than because she believed Sam, in all likelihood. She didn’t strike him as someone who wasted effort. He would need to pay a little attention, because she was fast with that thing. She couldn’t kill him, but cuts still stung like a bitch and he hadn’t mastered the trick of fixing them.

Sam turned to him. “How many?”

“Ten.”

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was low with warning again.

“Go. I’ve got this. Get them back to the cars.”

The ninja gave him an impatient look, not moving a bit, having been over this ground.

Sam’s lips tightened, unspoken fear and worry in his eyes. There were only ten. Maybe he could take care of these things one-by-one, and not have to use the full power of the Blade. Maybe not. Anything that was actually insane enough to be moving towards him was a little different. After the incident at Elijah’s, most demons fell nicely in line when he said Boo. Most other things ran.

All that was in Sam’s eyes, torn between wanting to save the girl and the kid, and the need to save his brother. They didn’t have time for this.

“Sam. Get going.”

To Sam’s credit, Sam had sussed out the girl’s weakness while they talked. Without warning Sam moved forward and nabbed the kid, trussing the struggling little guy securely in his arms and backing up behind Dean when the feral ninja rounded on him. Sam’s voice was that friendly, reassuring one again when he addressed her.

“Come on. Let’s get you guys out of here.”

******

Sam tightened his arms around the squirming kid, careful to keep his hold secure but not bruising. He had avoided staring at the girl following a few feet behind him. He didn’t want to tip her off. Not yet. To what, he wasn’t sure.

She didn’t recognize Dean. Had it been one of Dean’s usual late night pickups, he could’ve gone with it. But he was pretty sure that was miles removed from what had happened in Witchita. Dean wouldn’t talk about it, naturally, but Dean had sure as hell recognized her just now.

What was it Garth had said on the phone? It wasn’t much.

“Sam, you guys have time to head over to Dolgeville?”

He’d hemmed.

“Hey, I know y’all have a lot going on. I wouldn’t ask, except it’s a weird one. We could really use some experienced hands up there.”

That sounded ominous. Despite himself, he’d leaned in.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s Zee. I mean, at first it was Travis.”

He’d rolled his eyes there, because Travis could drown in a kiddie pool.

“I feel responsible.” Garth added. “I asked her to look into it. Look for Travis, I mean.”

“Zee? She new?”

“Naw. Just low profile. She keeps it that way.”

Sometimes hunters did that. Garth had given him a phone number, but no last name. That was unusual, but not unheard of. Hunting being what it was, almost everyone had a past, a reason they got into it in the first place. Some people buried theirs deep. It happened. He hadn’t thought any more of it at the time.

He shifted his grip on the kid, listening to the sounds behind him. He could hear the faint thwacking noises of a fight beginning. He picked up the pace. 

“These zombie things, they reassemble?”

“Yes.”

Her voice was clipped. She was sweeping their surroundings as she moved with near silent, efficient steps. Experience. She had her right hand on the katana by her side, like she was expecting zombies to pop out of the woods ahead of them at any moment.

“Dean’ll take care of it. He’s…good.”

That wasn’t quite the word for it, but it was better than reminding a hunter they’d left the job with a demon.

She flicked him a look, not fooled.

He glanced back. They were too far to see anything, but the sounds of fighting had intensified. The feel of the air around them changed.

His heart dropped to his stomach. He sped up until Zee was almost at a run.

“What is it?” She asked, looking at him keenly.

“It’s the First Blade. Sometimes,” He hesitated, wondering how much it was wise to divulge. “it can be used to kill everything around it.”

A blast wave, air and light, blew through the trees, rattling the leaves, leaving the smell of ozone charged air behind.

_Shit_.

He thrust the kid he was carrying at her. “Get back to the cars. You should be fine now. I’ve got to get back to Dean.”

Without waiting for her answer, he turned back along the path, trying not to trip over his own feet. His heart was beating too fast, remembering what happened when Dean powered up the blade this way. The demon in his brother’s eyes, barely controlled, on the edge, needing more. More blood. More death.

He slipped the angel blade from his jacket, balancing it loosely on his palm. He wanted not to be holding it. He wanted the .38, because the devil’s traps bullets would have been better—Dean wouldn’t have liked being shot, but the demon would survive being shot. But a month ago he had panicked, with that horde of revenants he hadn’t expected to run into in Bangor, and the demon had knocked the gun out of his hand before he’d even gotten his finger over the trigger. He’d fallen back, the angel blade tumbling into his hand on reflex. The demon had jerked away with a hiss. With a sick sensation he had level it at the demon, because there was only one reason the demon would fear it. The _demon_ still feared death. And so he had held it there, pointed at his brother, breathing as slowly and as evenly as he could, his knuckles white with strain, waiting and waiting until Dean came back to himself again. They’d traded one long look, understanding a bitter lump in their throats.

He reached the breach in the trees where they had left Dean.

He came to a dead stop.

_This was a mistake. Mistake. Mistake. They shouldn’t have come. They should have stayed in the bunker._

The clearing was utter carnage. Dean had said there were ten of those things—vampire eating zombies or whatever, but it was impossible to get a head count from the slop of exploded body parts and … lumpy bits of mash smeared across the ground like rotten jam. The stale stench of things long dead, foul and chalky, hung heavy in the air like a fog, thick enough to taste. Dean stood with his back to him, smack in the middle of the slop, the First Blade held down by his side, blood still running down the grooves of the ancient bone, dripping onto the already soaked ground.

“Dean?”

The demon spun around. The First Blade arced up, pointed in his direction. Black eyes, heavy with suspicion, eyed the angel blade in his hand.

Dean snarled.

With effort he kept himself from reacting to the threat in Dean’s posture. He kept his palm open, the angel blade balanced loosely on it, trying for unthreatening.

The demon just watched him, eyeing the angelic weapon in his hand, not breathing.

“Dean.”

He watched Dean’s eyes. Black, black, black. The First Blade quivered in Dean’s hand. Beneath the fabric of Dean’s sleeve, he could see the ember glow of the Mark of Cain.

“Dean.”

_Marco_ , waiting for a _Polo_.

He’d keep waiting. They’d get through this. He had to believe. Just this last time. They’d get through this, go back to the bunker, and hole the hell up. He was wrong. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t wrap his hand around the angel blade, grip it like he meant it and…

Before he could help himself, he huffed.

Dark eyes moved from the silver weapon in his hand up to his eyes. Looked into his soul. God knows what was in there had to be a sad mess, but he kept one thought at the forefront.

“ _Dean._ ”

Dean’s shoulder trembled. With a shudder, Dean let go of the First Blade and collapsed to his knees, shaking and shaking from the cold. Sam scrambled across the clearing, stepping over severed arms and legs and other disembodied parts, and dropped down besides his brother, catching him by the shoulders before Dean went over entirely. It was bad. It was worse than the spiders in Bramwell, and worse than the revenants they stumbled across in Bangor. There’d been bodies left then. He wrapped both arms around Dean, trying to stop the shakes that were nearly convulsions, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to make it bleed, trying to keep the moisture out of his eyes.

“Hey. I’m here. Right here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Out of countless nightmares he had woken to those words, Dean’s hands on his shoulders, insistent. _Sammy, wake up. Wake up, I’ve got you._ He’d open his eyes, out of the fire, flames on the ceiling above him, flames around him, flames in his mind. He’d find his brother’s face, creased with worry but anchored and sure, steady as a rock. He’d focus in on Dean’s green-hazel eyes, familiar, not fire, not flames, and come back to the present, to the world.

Dean shuddered.

“Sam?”

“Yeah. I’m here. It’s alright.”

“I think there are more.” Dean rasped out, voice grating like sandpaper.

“ _What_? Here?”

“Not sure.” Pause. “I lost count.”

Sam inhaled sharply at the low admission. _Shit, fuck and double shit._ Exhausted, Dean slumped back against him, the shaking restarting. He adjusted his grip on Dean’s shoulder, trying to keep him upright.

Dean flinched violently, like the touch hurt.

What the hell?

Before he could open his mouth to ask, the sound of a twig cracking brought both their heads up, Dean scrambling around him trying to get at the First Blade. Sam had his angel blade up and leveled at the sound before he got a good look at what made it.

Zee stood there, at the edge of the clearing, one hand on the hilt of her sword, the other keeping the kid behind her. She stayed perfectly still, her face unreadable.

Deadly calm.

Sam’s fingers curled tighter around the angel blade of their own volition while his heart beat too loudly in his ears. He waited for it, for her exorcism incantation to start, waited for her to draw. He waited for Dean to respond to the threat, lightening and darkness and blood.

What was he going to do with the weapon in his hand?

His mind was surprisingly blank.

A second ticked by.

She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Dean. At the hard challenge Dean was glaring her way. At Dean’s hand gripping a bruise on his arm. She met his brother’s stare head on with an eerie stillness, unknowable thoughts behind those unusual amber eyes. Wolf eyes, Sam thought suddenly, somehow both ice and fire. In a dark alley, a wise man steered clear. What was she _seeing_?

After what seemed like an eon, she tilted her head in the direction of the cars, and said with inhuman evenness, “Come on. If you didn’t get them all, we need to get moving.”


	23. Won't Fall Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Steve Fister.

What the hell was she playing at?

Dean scowled. This was the second time now she’d caught him off guard, ass in the breeze. And she just _looked_ at him, _demon him_ , unafraid.

A normal hunter would have exorcised his ass.

Why didn’t she?

Maybe she couldn’t say the words. Maybe she wasn’t human enough to.

He glared at her back as they picked their way through the woods back to the cars. Feeling his stare, she turned half around, icy calm eyes sweeping him head to foot again like a laser scan. Looking for horns or scales or whatever. She held on tighter to the kid and picked up her pace a little, a few steps away from him, the message in her eyes crystal.

_Back the hell off._

His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t the one that kept gate crashing her life. He wasn’t the one that left cryptic messages with sizzling hot kisses that what? She didn’t remember? Forgot?

Hell no. No one kissed like that and _forgot._

For a moment he valiantly tried not to remember how much he remembered. It was a distraction he couldn’t afford right this minute, and it was a hellishly distracting thought. It had been one thing to have an insubstantial memory, but quite another thing when she was right there, not more than five feet in front of him, the shape and heat of how she had felt in his arms a vivid temptation in those jeans. He wanted to run his hands under that cropped leather jacket she wore, around her slender waist, feel her arch sweetly into his arms again.

Feel warm again.

He’d have to do something about the gun there first, though.

His mind jerked back to reality. She was a few guns short of being Lara-frickin’-Croft, but the idea was the same. Disarming her would take a while, and she looked the type to have hidden sharp edges stashed in unexpected places. A pro.

With a kid.

Again. What the hell?

The kid was watching her feet. Trying to step where she stepped, trying not to make noise. Despite his best efforts, his strides just weren’t long enough to avoid crunching along, a kicked rock here, a cracked branch there, loud. Not her kid, then. Dad had Sam and him trained before he would even consider taking them into the woods. He couldn’t see her doing any different; she was too put together in every other way to overlook that detail.

He’d guess the boy to be about eight. Whatever had happened, the kid trusted the ninja. He was holding on to her hand tightly, not looking up to see where they were going, just watching his feet, trying to learn. Kind of the way he’d watched Dad’s every move, copying them until he had it all down.

Dean bit back a bitter scoff and the desire to pluck the kid off the ground and carry him so the rustling leaf noises would stop. To tell him that this road led nowhere good, he didn’t want to go there. He was a human kid, and he ought to be out playing ball at this time of afternoon, or in school, or video games, or something, anything but this.

Unconsciously he clenched his fist. He winced as a fresh jab of pain rocketed up from his wrist to his elbow. One of those mutant “ _vampire eating zombies”_ had bit him. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He added that to the list of weird that surrounded her. The bite frickin’ _hurt._ It felt like that time he’d accidentally gotten battery acid on his hand, burning a hole in his skin, the thick caustic smell of it eating at his lungs. He thought shit like that wasn’t supposed to happen to him anymore, being dead and all, and the only things left to hurt him were anti-demon wards. But his fingers were stiff, felt swollen, felt hot and infected and tender. He could bend them only with effort. 

That was a problem. He couldn’t grip the First Blade properly, and maybe two or three of those crazy white-eyed things were still out there, dodging their steps. He couldn’t sense them nearby, not yet. But he knew his count. He hadn’t gotten them all. 

Again, how the hell was that even happening?

He glared at her back again. _She_ was somehow at the center of all this, this giant cluster bomb of weird. She said the zombies were after the kid, but they only had her word for it. The kid was human, and needed to be out of this mess. Away from her, whatever she was.

The cars were not far up ahead where they had left them. Sam came to a stop beside Baby and looked back at them. He caught Sam's eye, and moved ahead to join him. He must have had some expression on his face, because Sam's eyebrows went up with an unspoken question. "What?"

He shook Sam off. He knew Sam would object to what he was about to do, but he was going to do it anyway.

******

“Kid comes with us.”

Zee stopped where she was, tensing.

“No.”

“Dean.” Sam said at the same time, his voice reproving even as surprise flashed across his face.

What the hell was this about now? 

Dean Winchester glared at her. Her eyes narrowed at the misplaced suspicion in his eyes. He’d had his back up from moment one, which was rich, all things considered. _Exorcizamus te_ was on the tip of her tongue again as she glared back at him, her hand slipping to the sword at her side. Not that that would do any good. Demonic magic blade pretty much trumped sharp steel any day of the week. If she didn’t need him, need _them_ , to take care of this zombie problem, she’d be doing something different. Doing her job.

The slaughter back in the clearing had been devastatingly complete. She couldn’t even visualize tangling with, how many had he said? Ten? of those reassembling monstrosities at once. Or however many he had actually gotten—it had to be a few—there was enough _pulp_ there to make a few of the walking dead. They were knee deep in it, the pair of them, clinging on to each other, and that was the only thing that had stayed her reflexive incantation. That, and the need to protect the kid behind her.

Toby’s hand brushed hers, pulling away when he remembered she might need both of them for whatever was to follow. Four sharp eyes followed the aborted movement like a tell, and it was Sam that stepped forward with his Obi-Wan face switched on.

“We just want to help. We think the kid might be safer with us.”

Was there a polite way of saying “you’re not up to the job?” And that might have been true if it protecting Toby from the zombies was all they were worried about. Compared to the lean mean killing machine over there, she wasn’t even in the same league. But it seemed to her, and they were all hunters here, that the kid would be better off staying with the _human_ in the group.

She took a step back, suspicious again, crowding Toby behind her.

“Why?”

The brothers exchanged a loaded look. What was going on here? She hadn’t missed Dean’s odd choice of pronouns at the outset, nor Sam’s way-too-thoughtful air. 

Dean moved to get around Sam, looking at her, still unreasonably narrow-eyed.

“You sure they’re not hunting you?”

Of all the…“And why would they be doing that?” She snapped.

“Because you’re…”

“Guys.” Sam stepped all over what Dean was about to say, shooting him a warning glance. Oh, there was definitely something they were not telling her. Good cop stepped in front of bad cop again, subtly closing the distance between them.

She backed up another step, remembering how fast Sam moved the last time.

“How’d you get mixed up with them in the first place?” Dean changed tack, talking around Sam’s efforts.

“ _She’s_ sending them to look for me.” Toby piped up from behind her, fiercely defensive.

“She? She who?”

“ _Mother_.”

The boys exchanged another look, this time reassessing.

“Who is Mother, Toby?”

Toby shot Sam an entirely distrusting look as Sam took another step forward, also not having forgotten Sam’s last grab.

Sam.”

That tone was in Dean’s voice again. Warning, command, and caution. He was looking towards the trees, a frown on his face, reaching into his jacket left-handed, fishing for the magic weapon. Huh. She was pretty sure he had been right-handed. She squinted at how he was holding his right arm gingerly, ignoring his forbidding frown at her inspection. With a frustrated grunt, he switched back to trying that right hand, grimacing as he tried to bend his fingers to get a good grip on the old blade.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

His mouth set stubbornly, glaring alternately at his hand then at her, like it was all her fault. Her eyes narrowed at his repeatedly awkward attempts to hold his weapon properly.

He glanced off towards the trees, with that counting look on his face again.

“How many?” She shot the question at him, abruptly deciding and turning to face the forest, pulling Toby around so he was between her and the brothers. It gave them the perfect opportunity to make that grab for the kid they seemed so bent on, but she was stuck between a rock and a hard place on choices. Zombie or demon, demon or zombie. She cast another look at Dean Winchester, now pigheadedly trying the weapon in his left hand again, with sadly unstable results.

“Two.” He returned shortly, biting down on his lips against obvious pain.

“Dean.” Somehow Sam managed to get concern and frustration and exasperation all into that one word as he moved up alongside her, scanning the trees and drawing a Beretta. “Just stay back.”

She glanced once at the gun.

“No. Machete.”

Unlike some hunters she’d run across, Sam’s head was not so chock full of testosterone that he wasted time arguing. He went quickly to the trunk of the long black Chevy and rummaged around, coming up with a well-used 18-inch machete. He was heading her way when a flash of something white moved in the trees, a few inches off the ground.

Without any warning at all, Toby bolted, running flat out, heading away from the flash of white.

She drew, purely in reaction to Toby’s panic, but there was nothing there. Nothing in front of her, nothing in the trees. She turned just in time to see Dean reach out and snag Toby by his jacket, pulling the panicked kid to him right-handed, white-lipped with effort, but his hold on Toby remained incredibly gentle.

Dean gathered the shaking kid to his side securely before asking gruffly, “What? What is it?”

Toby shook his head into Dean’s jacket, trembling from head to foot.

There was only one thing that would make Toby react like that.

She turned back to the trees, sweeping left to right again, eyes straining for anything at all.

Nothing.

Sam was doing the same besides her, machete held at the ready.

Dean’s warning shout came a mere two seconds before the zombies erupted from the trees. Lithe zombies this time, not as hulk-like as the first ones she’d encountered. With inhuman leaps the two figures sprang and crossed the distance of yards in one bound.

She’d had time to think since the last encounter. Take out the knees first, and duck to avoid the grabbing hands. Not quickly enough to avoid a long scratch on her chin but much better than last time. The trick was to be methodical. Just the head wasn’t important. A diagonal slice from shoulder to armpit took off an arm and the head. Back up across took off the second arm. She put enough force into her swing the arm went flying off. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam duck as it went sailing by his head.

Sam had done the usual thing and beheaded his zombie, then halved it across the waist with one powerful swing. He blanched as the top part started crawling towards the legs. He swallowed and stepped forward, whacked the hands off, and swallowed again with revulsion as the hands kept crawling.

“Keep the parts from coming together.” She said curtly, kicking at an ambulatory arm, heading to the SUV for the accelerant. She flicked a nervous look at the trees before turning away from them. She felt eyes watching, watching and assessing.

Like this had all been a test.

Dean was still holding on to Toby when she went by the Impala. She made a directional gesture with her head. Dean scowled at her, all kinds of commentary in that scowl, which she ignored.

She grabbed the gas cans and headed back to Sam without stopping to reassure Toby like maybe she should have done. She didn’t, because when she glanced at the trees again, the feeling of being watched persisted. Any reassurance would be a lie.

Sam accepted one of the gas cans from her wordlessly, standing watch over the bits of crawling zombie. They had the whole mess doused and lit in short order. She kept a wary eye on the woods the whole time, until Sam said, “What is it?”

“I think she’s out there.”

“Who? This Mother thing?”

“Yes.”

Sam looked up at the trees, repeating her visual sweep before catching Dean’s eye.

Supernatural Radar shook his head once, frowning uncertainly.

“Huh.” Sam glanced at the trees again, troubled, instincts pricking like hers. 

“Yeah.” She went back to setting fire to the various still crawling bits, watching to make sure they burned down to ash.

Yep. Fire did the trick. Good to know. 

******

She couldn’t be much older than Sam, and he knew Sam could take care of himself, but damn. It was like watching Sam and Soulless Sam in action side-by-side, only if Soulless had shrunk and turned into a girl. She ran cool where Sam ran hot, expressionless where Sam was not, unfeeling where Sam felt too much. 

You learned a lot about a hunter by watching how they ganked monsters real time. It was all business to him, all about right and wrong and justice and redemption to Sam, and with her, it was just ice. It was like she turned everything off but what she needed to do—no vengeance, no pleasure, no fear, no victory. She could have been pruning trees for all the expression on her face.

The reason she was making so many pieces of the chopped dead was soon clear. The pieces hadn’t done _that_ when he’d cut ‘em up, but then he was using the First Blade. Things tended to stay dead. Sam was whacking at the crawling creepy bits on the ground in front of him like a crazed butcher, making “ugh, ugh, ugh” noises like a girl. The girl was coming towards him, heading towards her car, sword sheathed with a slick flick-y move that was apparently not just for the movies.

He tugged the kid more securely to him, ignored the hot stiff hurt in his fingers, putting an arm around the thin shoulders securely. Kid didn’t need to see the NC-17 bloodbath going on out there. He was shaking hard enough as it was. Wasn’t crying, just trembling from head to foot and edgy as all hell, ready to take off again if he let go.

Again, what the hell was she thinking, bringing the kid into this mess?

She looked at him once, at Toby’s face buried in his jacket, and tilted her head. _Move it. He doesn’t need to see this._

He tried to remember the last time anyone tried to give him a direct order like that, and couldn’t.

The gas can she came out with explained things.

Yeah, alright. Kid didn’t need to see this.

He pocketed the First Blade and picked the kid up with his good arm, taking him over to the open hatch of the SUV and depositing him on the tailgate. The kid took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, blue eyes stealing a glance in his direction, surprisingly sharp and measuring. Dean looked around the back of the SUV, at the neat freak tidy interior, the modified platform, the height of it slightly wrong for this make and model, and her lockbox tucked tight against the back seats. A tray of bottled water sat next to that—a lot of water, probably holy—beside which was a partially open canvas duffel. He snuck a look inside, because, professional curiosity.

Well. Okay. That was a sweet little pile of C4.

He tilted his head consideringly. Firebombing the zombie nest wasn’t a bad plan, all in all. Risky. Vaguely stupid considering the kid couldn’t exactly move quietly in the woods, but he’d done worse.

Still.

A fleeting sense of something made him look up at the trees again. No. Maybe. He squinted at the middle distance, feeling something winking in and out, there and then not there. There, and not there again. He would have gone to look, except for the kid. He was still frowning at the trees, trying to pin down that feeling when the kid’s voice interrupted.

“Are you a zombie?”

“What?! No.”

“A vampire?”

“No!”

“Then what are you?”

Dean stopped for a full second with his brows pinched together. There was such a thing as knowing too much. But looking at the kid’s steady blue gaze, he could tell a lie wasn’t going to cut it. He settled for evasion.

“Something else.”

“What?”

“Something.”

“Something good, or something bad?”

God, the kid was persistent.

“Something bad.”

Toby paused and stared at him. He felt like a bug under a microscope. The kid considered, then cocked his head to one side.

“I don’t think so.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

He gave the kid a stern look.

“Kid, you see something like me, black eyes and all, you run. We’re bad news.”

Toby considered that for a few seconds. “How will I know if it’s like you? You look normal now.”

“Holy Water.”

Soulless’ cool voice came from behind him.

The kid peered around him, a question in that look.

She returned the gas can to its spot. She slipped a thing of bottled water out of the pack and handed it to the boy.

“Holy water; it burns demons when you splash it on them.”

The kid gave the water bottle in his hand a strange look before looking at the ninja again. Her expression was bland, but Toby looked reproachful. He uncapped the water and sniffed it.

“Really?” The kid sounded dubious.

Dean heaved a resigned sigh. He held out his left hand.

The ninja went still. Maybe that was what passed for surprise in Soulless Ninja World. Without looking away from him, she held her hand out for the water bottle. Toby obeyed the wordless command automatically, putting the bottle and the cap in her hands. From behind him, he heard Sam make a muffled burp of protest. Dean grit his teeth, and shook his hand out a little to loosen it.

_Come on._

Moving slowly, Soulless poured a drop, just a drop, of holy water into the bottle cap. He held her gaze, trying to guess which of the two things in her hand she was going to throw at him—the whole bottle, or the tiny bit. It was hard to tell. She was right handed, and the bottle was in her right hand.

She reached out with her left. Held the bottle cap over his hand. And tipped it.

_SON OF A…_

He bit down on the curse and shut his eyes, his hand fisting automatically around the sizzling burn like a hot poker to his skin. His arm tensed up, muscles bunching, because goddamn _SON OF A …that hurt._ He heard the kid suck in his breath, and felt, from the shifting of the air, both the kid and the ninja back up, and her hand would be going to her weapon next if he didn’t get things under control. Sam’s hands came down on his shoulders, steady, steady, and _oh, come on_ , he’d gone done volunteered for this stupid parlor trick, and it shouldn’t be so hard to not go all Cujo.

He took a deep breath.

Sam’s hands tightened on his shoulders reassuringly.

He half expected when he opened his eyes again, the kid, the girl, and the SUV would be gone. He cracked his eyes and fist open, unsure how much time had passed.

The kid’s blue eyes met his. Were his still black? It took him a moment to focus, to sort out what he was seeing. He was startled again when Toby’s arm darted out and wiped the remaining water off his palm with his jacket sleeve. Dean hid his grimace when the fabric brushed against the burn spot, stinging almost as bad as the water, but he said nothing.

He nodded towards the water bottle, still uncapped, still tilted, in the ninja’s hands.

“You chuck that whole thing, and you skeedaddle.”

Toby reached for the water bottle. Zee capped it, and handed it to the boy. The kid wrapped his hands around it like it was his new favorite toy. How had she not taught him about that yet? It was like hunting 101, that, and how to fire a shotgun. Dean’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized her again. Maybe she hadn’t taught the kid, because there were tests _she_ wouldn’t pass.

It was hard to ignore someone when they were boring holes into your head with their eyes, but she managed. 

“Where are y’all staying?” Sam asked from behind him.

She flicked a look at the trees again. Her glance slid across him, debating evasion, before settling on Sam. 

“Utica tonight, I think.”

Dean frowned.

“What’s wrong with Little Falls?”

“Too close.”

Dean looked over at the forest. That winking sensation of something being there-not there…yeah.

“Alright. Take the lead. We’ll follow.”


	24. Paranoid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Black Sabbath.

“Did you see? Is she?” Sam asked the minute they were in the car alone.

“What? A ball of light? Not human?” His answer was waspish. His arm ached, and the feral ninja was a puzzle wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an enigma with a kid. It was enough to give him a headache, and he no longer got headaches.

Sam practically buzzed with impatience for an answer.

“I. Don’t. Know. Sammy.”

He really hoped that would be the end of it, except Sam’s eyes squinted. Dean groaned.

“So, she’s not human?”

He was going to be forced to admit something he didn’t want to admit.

“I can’t tell.”

Sam stopped for a full minute.

“What do you mean you can’t tell? Can’t you look and, you know, _see?_ ”

Dean grit his teeth.

“No.”

“Why?”

Sam was going to be the death of him, one of these days, with the questions.

“Because the demon has a hard time looking at her, okay? It’s like, remembered pain or something, okay?”

Sam blinked, and a dangerously pleased expression went across his face.

“Sam. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. These things never end well.”

The truth of that put a little damper on the bubble of hope Sam had been riding. Sam glanced over in his direction, taking note of the cautious way he was sitting. Sam’s forehead creased with concern.

“Your arm still hurt?”

He flexed his right hand and winced. Sam’s frown deepened.

“Should we call Cas?”

He looked out the window. “We can’t go running to Cas every time something happens. Dude’s got his own problems.”

“Dean. A zombie bit you. You.” Sam repeated for emphasis, like he wasn’t aware of the implications of that fact. “We haven’t run across anything that can do that.”

“Oh, like we’ve been challenging ourselves with the things we’ve been hunting?”

Sam shrugged off his sarcasm impatiently. “I’m calling Cas.”

“Whatever. Leave me out of it.”

Sam shot a worried glance at the brusqueness in his tone.

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

******

They ended up in Johnstown, the complete opposite direction of Utica. Dean couldn’t say he was all that surprised at the misdirect. He was just glad she hadn’t tried to lose them on the thruway, which would have been the cherry topping on the cake of a day.

And now Cas was staring at him again.

“They’re not zombies.” Cas said absently, his attention on the red-green bite marks on Dean’s arm. He prodded the arm with two fingers, closed his eyes to focus, but nothing happened.

Cas frowned more, a bit worriedly.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“I don’t know if I can heal you, Dean.”

“Is it?” The question on Sam’s tongue was if Cas’ grace reserves were running low.

“No.” Cas paused awkwardly. “Dean’s demonic aura is getting in the way.”

“My aura?” Dean said dangerously. He didn’t want an aura, demonic or not. It was too close to crystals and Sedona for comfort.

“The Mark of Cain is getting in the way.” Cas amended.

That was better.

Sam, however, looked like he caught a bug up his butt.

“What?”

Sam glowered. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

******

“Really, Dean. You should be more careful. Seriously, do I have to do everything around here?”

Crowley was smug. Well, smugger than normal, which took some doing. Sam glared, because there was nothing else he could do but glare.

Dean sat quietly, arm held gingerly still beside him on the wildly floral bedspread. Crowley leaned forward to get a closer look.

“Interesting.” Crowley mused thoughtfully. Crowley poked at the two green-red fang marks on Dean’s wrist, then frowned. “Well. They’re not zombies. Exactly.”

“What are they?” Cas demanded sharply.

Crowley ignored Cas and tapped Dean on the head, earning himself an irate look in the process.

“How are you feeling, Laverne? That time of the month? Got any strange cravings?”

Dean glared at Crowley. “Just fix it.”

Crowley’s gaze turned considering as he studied Dean, before he shrugged himself straight.

“Fine. Suffer in your manly silence. Pay attention now, Squirrel. You do...this.” He tapped the bite marks with a finger while holding Dean’s gaze, some kind of demon-to-demon telepathy. Sam glared harder. The bite marks disappeared.

Sam scowled.

Dean shook his arm out, wriggling numbness out of his fingers. “Huh.”

“Mind you, there are limits.” Crowley cautioned. “The Mark of Cain ties you to this body, so don’t go testing your limits until you’re all done marinating and can handle it.” Crowley frowned at where the bite marks had been. “And I’d stay away from these things altogether if I were you.”

Cas drew himself up to his full height, looming over Crowley. “What are they, Crowley?”

“Now, now, Shirley. We’re all on the same side now, like it or not.”

Cas’ eyes narrowed dangerously, and a flicker of grace danced across his fingertips.

Crowley crooked his head with an its-your-funeral shrug. “Whatever bit Laverne here didn’t just bite him. In the flesh, so to speak. It bit into his power; took a little bit of the demon with the bite. Very curious. Ingenious, even.”

“That’s not possible.”

Crowley shrugged again. “Possible or not, it happened. You saw it for yourself. It’s more than a flesh wound. Or are you losing your sight along with the rest of your powers?”

Cas sniffed.

“This is something you made?” 

“Me? I’ve got all Hell to run. Besides, making monsters has never been our department, mate. That’s more” and he pointed up with his forefinger. “Upstairs, if you know what I mean. Creation, and all that.”

“Heaven would do no such thing.”

”You hold on to that thought if it makes you happy. _I_ had nothing to do with it.” Crowley smiled, his usual brand of smarmy, only it didn’t seem like his heart was in it. “Now, if you boys don’t mind, do try not to call for a while.”


	25. Stranger Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Bad Company.

Zee doubled the thickness of the salt line at the motel room door and stepped back to consider it. The white line ran all the way around the perimeter of the room, and she was still not sure the man next door couldn’t just step across it.

“Don’t you trust Dean?” Toby asked.

She carried the pizza that had just been delivered to the table and set it down before answering.

“I don’t know yet.”

Toby plonked himself into a chair.

“He seems okay.”

“He’s a demon. You can’t trust demons.”

“Why not?”

She set a napkin in front of him and handed him a bottle of water from the mini-bar.

“They’re monsters. Just like all the other monsters.”

“Dean seems different.” Toby directed his words at the pizza, looking at his choices. Hawaiian or pepperoni. He took a slice of the pepperoni.

She chose the other, and sat down. That may be true, for now, but sooner or later, he would turn. Sooner or later, Sam would be forced to use that angel blade that had been in his hand.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, she had hesitated. The exorcism had died on her lips. Maybe it was the same whatever it was that made Toby think Dean was okay. Maybe it was the expression on Sam’s face.

_Not yet._

_Please._

It had been a break in discipline. Probably a mistake.

What had happened at Elijah’s had made the rounds on the rumor mill. It sounded like a story, added to all the other stories about the brothers. What Dean did, how he was doing it, it was impossible. It should have been impossible. The things he was capable of with the First Blade—to fight back to human from that—she took a deep breath.

Garth was one thing. Garth was a teddy wolf. Garth still cried at the sappy bits in movies and tried to save pain-in-the-ass hunters like Travis. Dean Winchester was something else entirely.

Green eyes black eyes and back again. The strength of will in the him vibrating like a force, trying to hold back the red hot lava flow of destruction seething beneath the surface of his skin. He couldn’t do it forever. It was just a matter of time. One day he would fail, and one day his brother would have to do what needed to be done.

In the end, _family_ meant nothing to a demon.

She re-focused on the slice of pizza in her hand. Toby had half of his attention on the Captain America movie playing on TV, chewing absently. 

The bit with the holy water had been a surprise. Unfortunately, all it did was reinforce Toby’s impression that Dean was someone he liked.

Toby took another slice of pizza and glanced in her direction again.

“He helped us. He killed the zombies.”

“Hmm.”

It was hard to argue with the logic in that. It was hard not to see how tightly he had held on to his brother’s arm, like it was a lifeline to his humanity. It was hard not to notice how gently he had held on to Toby.

This was just expedient. For now, she needed them, the power in that magic, zombie killing blade. The zombies were worse. _Mother_ , whatever she was, needed to be taken care of. After that, they’d be quits and go their separate ways. And for all his Peace Corp mannerisms, Sam Winchester was no pushover. He knew well enough what the future held. 

It wasn’t her problem.

******

Dean Winchester was waiting for them when they headed out to breakfast the next morning, leaning against the railing of the motel balcony, two cups of take-out coffee in his hands. He smiled a lopsided smile, a flash of charm that didn’t go at all to his eyes, and extended one of the cups in her direction.

“Truce?”

She eyed the cup before eyeing him, her look flat and unfriendly. Her birthday wasn’t yesterday.

“You’re kidding me.”

Green eyes narrowed at her. “What? You don’t drink coffee?”

“Yeah, and I take apples from random old crones knocking on my door too. What all did you put in that?”

“Holy water.” Toby supplied from beside her.

“There are worse things. Roofies for one.”

Toby’s eyebrows pulled together. “What’s that?”

“Stuff that puts you to sleep when you don’t want to.”

Dean made a slightly choked noise that might have been an outraged cough.

“Don’t sugarcoat anything for the kid, why don’t you?”

Her lips pulled taut. Teach the kid, don’t teach the kid. She wished he would make up his mind.

“Toby, go get our own holy water from the room, yeah?”

Toby nodded, taking the key card from her hand before dashing off. She scanned the short distance, watching him go in the door before turning back to Dean.

“If you wanted to know, why not just ask?”

She pulled the silver dagger from her boot as she spoke. With practiced motions, she pulled up her sleeve and made the usual cut on her forearm, holding it out to show him, red human blood welling up in a thin line on her skin. She reversed the blade and handed it to him, hilt first, so he could see it was true silver.

He inspected both with far more care than was warranted. He handed her back her blade slowly, watching where she tucked it into her boot, memorizing the location of the hidden weapon. She dropped her eyes as she pulled the bandana from her pocket and wrapped the cut on her arm, thinking hard. They were both acting off, him _and_ Sam, and even though these tests were as standard as handshakes in their world, there was something _more_ to it.

Before she could finish the thought, Toby’s footsteps sounded behind her. Toby glanced at the bandana on her arm, an alarmed question in his eyes.

“Just proving I’m human. Hunter stuff.” 

Toby threw an accusing look at Dean.

“I could have told you that.” Toby said, handing her the bottle of holy water he had retrieved.

Dean leaned back slightly. It had to be mostly reflex. She didn’t have any illusions about being able to get the drop on him, but there he was, backing up anyway as if he thought she could. It was almost funny.

“Relax. I’m not going to use it on you.”

Pure skepticism met her words. When the shoe was on the other foot, he wasn’t so big on the whole trust thing either. She gave the proffered coffee in his hand a speaking look. _See?_

He scowled.

She uncapped the water and took a swig from it.

They all waited two seconds.

“Want to check it?” She probably shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t resist. The ridiculous irony of the situation was a little too much.

The corners of his mouth pulled down.

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

She held back an arch look. Under normal circumstances, he could have taken a sip from the coffee to prove it was harmless. He didn’t, because he couldn’t, unless he wanted to be spitting smoke for the next two minutes. She wasn’t sure if a roofie would affect him at all; demon physiology had advantages. She handed the water to Toby, even though she was pretty sure it was mostly her he was worried about.

Toby drank and glared at Dean defiantly.

His lips pursed slightly, grudgingly. Still, he didn’t move out of their way. It was like he had been so sure she would fail the test he hadn’t made a backup plan.

Fortunately for him, Sam chose that moment to join them.

“Morning.” Sam said a little too brightly.

Without another word, Dean handed Sam the cup of questionable coffee and threw a dark look in her direction. Sam accepted the tall paper cup with the ease of habit, and took a sip gratefully before he realized everyone was staring at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” They replied at the same time, tones equally curt.

Sam’s eyebrows hitched upwards.

Toby, however, was still staring at Sam intently.

“Do you feel sleepy?” Toby asked.

Dean glared at her as Sam’s eyebrows went higher.

“No. Why?”

“Zee thought there might be roofies in the coffee.”

The bottom edge of Sam’s lip tucked in and he glanced at her. She met that measuring hazel gaze without flinching. He squatted down to nearly Toby’s eye level, and looked the kid straight in the eye.

“The coffee’s fine. I feel fine.” Sam said sincerely. “We wouldn’t do that. We just want to help you.”

The look Toby gave him was surprisingly sharp.

“You want to help _us._ ” Toby corrected. “You won’t hurt Zee either, right?”

Sam took a quick glance up, noting the water and the makeshift bandage on her arm, meeting Dean’s eyes, catching Dean’s almost imperceptible nod before answering. 

“Of course.”

Toby looked at Dean, blue eyes staring harder than he had a right to at that age. Waiting.

They were going to be here all morning. She stepped in, a reluctant sense of fairness forcing the words out.

“Toby. It’s standard stuff. It’s only fair they know we’re human too.”

Something in her words made Sam’s head snap in her direction. Impossible hope, impossible desperation, all there in his eyes, just for a second. She would have thought she imagined it, except Dean stiffened, before whatever it was dropped off Sam’s face, erased, replaced by the puppy eyes of a golden retriever and the smiling dimples of a six year old, more harmless than harmless, and she didn’t believe it for a second. She ran her words back in her mind, but couldn’t spot the trigger.

Sam was still beaming at her.

“Great! Where are you guys off to? Breakfast?”

Oh no. They might be working a job together, but they weren’t doing this. Meal sharing, caring camaraderie crap.

“Mmm.” She answered, vague and non-committal. She held out a hand for Toby, and he put his in hers. She turned to move around the brothers, hoping they’d go off and do whatever it was they did.

Sam fell in step alongside and addressed his questions to Toby.

“It usually takes a while to figure out where’s good in a town. What do you like?”

Toby looked at her, waiting for her begrudging nod before he answered Sam.

“Waffles.” Then his natural inclination to chatter took over. “Pecan waffles. With whipped cream.”

Sam’s face twitched at the mention of whipped cream. “Sounds good. Mind if we come along?”

“Sam.” Dean’s voice came from behind them.

Toby looked at her again, wanting permission.

She hesitated. In about a million ways, this was a bad idea. She looked at Toby’s face, eager for someone new to talk to, some variation from the monotony of another day in lockdown. The kid needed balance. Not that the Winchesters were the ideal candidates for that—pretty much anyone else, possibly Ferdie excepted, would have been better—but it wasn’t like there were a whole lot of choices on the menu.

Fuck.

She nodded curtly, just the once.

In that same moment, Sam glanced back at Dean. Again, the brothers talked without speaking, a whole conversation in one look. Whatever the content of the exchange, Dean moved off his position at the railing, expression tight with the same reluctance she felt as he fell into step behind them. He resumed his pastime of trying to bore holes into the back of her head with his eyes—he wasn’t being subtle about it—and she just refrained from turning around and asking what the hell _now_.

Fantastic. This was going to be the world’s longest breakfast.


	26. Long Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from song by Chris Cornell.

“They’re not there.”

Dean set the weapons pack down on the bed with a light thud. The day was a bust. There was no trace of any zombies left at the old sawmill, never mind this mystical Mother they kept talking about. And there were too many people in the room. 

Sam was nose deep in research. He’d been to the library. Correction: They had all been to the library. It would have been like a field trip, Zee and Sam towing the kid along for hours and hours of boring rummaging through the shelves. There were books scattered around the room mixed up with the remains of a peanut butter and jelly fest. Dean looked around, because there had to be…yep, there they were, the bananas. Gross. Figured that was what Sam defaulted to when he thought of food for children.

He turned his head to find Cas looking longingly at the jar of peanut butter. He didn’t even want to know. Cas had gone with him back to Dolgeville, which was inconvenient, because it meant they had to take the Impala. And Cas drove like an old lady. He drove so slowly Dean took the wheel away from him on the way back, which shaved at least thirty minutes off the eighty-mile drive to Albany. At Zee’s insistence, they had moved again for the night, washed the cars by hand in freezing winter water because he had drawn the line at mechanical car washes for Baby, but no one complained.

Sorting things out this morning had been a mess. Cas caught up with them for breakfast, which was a zoo. He and Cas sat there and picked at food that tasted like nothing, while the feral ninja was clearly wishing either herself or all the rest of them somewhere far, far away. They were like a bunch of lone wolves trapped in a pack by necessity, trying to protect the cubs in their midst.

It was damned uncomfortable.

And then they had to sort out who went where to do what. Someone had to stay with the girl and the kid, clearly. _She_ may not have thought so, but left alone she would’ve done the first thing he would have done had he been in her shoes: bolt. Leave this circus behind and figure things out on her own. He could see it in her eyes. 

Ideally, Sam would have come with him when he went back to the old sawmill to check things out. But that would have left Cas with Ninja Girl, which was like leaving the baby to baby sit, Warrior of the Lord or not. So Sam had stayed, and Cas had come with, and there were entirely too many cooks in the kitchen.

His expression tightened as the memory of the single cage they had found at the sawmill came back to him. How long had the zombies had the kid in captivity? It had to have been a while, judging by the collection of candy wrappers and other bits of litter they had found.

Zee closed the lid of her laptop with a snap and stood.

“Come on.”

Toby put down the lock and pick he was working with and went to her side.

Dean blocked the door.

The look she leveled him was dead flat. “I’m not stupid. Our room’s next door.”

Sam gave him a small nod, confirming the fact.

“Don’t go far.”

As in, don’t leave your room. Don’t venture out without us. Don’t be an idiot.

She was not amused by the litany of things he did not say. There was going to be a solid ring of salt around that room if her expression was anything to go by. He watched the door close behind them, not knowing exactly what he was thinking.

“I must go.”

Cas made this announcement with some regret to the room at large.

“Wait, what? I thought you wanted to know what these things were.”

“I do. They present a danger. Anything that can…”

Dean swore. Cas’ fluffy friends were the epitome of rude, because they pulled him up, mid-sentence and mid-explanation, so Dean was left staring at the wall past where Cas had been standing. You’d think he’d have gotten used to that by now, but it was still irritating.

Then it was just him and Sammy in the room again, like it should be.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Where do you think she went?”

Sam was referring to _Mother_. 

Dean shrugged. “Got me. Utica? You find anything?”

Sam made a face and closed the book he was reading, frustrated. “There’s no lore on zombie-on-vampire or zombie-on-monster action. Why would there be? Godzilla and Mothra start thrashing it out, the smart thing to do is to get out of Dodge.”

“Anything there?” He threw a speaking look next door as he lowered his voice.

Sam looked patient. “They seem pretty normal, Dean. I mean, hunter normal, but normal.”

“And you know she’s not.” 

“Well, now she is.” And how would Sam know this for sure? Sam gave him an innocent look. He knew that look. He frowned.

“Anyway, what we need to do is find this _Mother_ thing, whatever she is, and gank her.”

Sam looked curiously at the vehemence in his tone. A thing, zombie or not, that he couldn’t sense, maybe, it wasn’t straightforward. There were times on the drive back he had felt strangely…watched, but try as he might, he couldn’t see anything, with any of his senses. It was all instinct, and it was frustrating to be left with just that when he was used to being able to _feel_ his way through the dark underbelly of existence. Cas felt it too, turning around three or four times to check the Impala’s back seat when it was clearly empty. Dean had said nothing. Whatever it was, sitting there on the edge of angel and demon senses but not visible to either of them, what could do that?

“What do you think she is? I mean, what kind of monster?”

“You heard Crowley last night. Something new.”

“I thought only Eve could make new monsters.” Sam was making himself another PB & J. It was his one weakness when it came to junk food. He looked up at Dean and got out two more slices of bread.

Dean sighed with resignation and sat down. He never liked PB&Js give him a ham and cheese or tacos anytime, but Sam liked them, so he’d had a lot of them. They had to eat something, and Dad hadn’t been made of money.

“Toby eat this stuff?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Sam had to think about it for a second. He hadn’t been paying attention. “I think so. At least one, anyway. Why?”

“Thought he might be off sweet stuff. Looks like that was all they fed him for however long they had him.”

Sam shook his head. “Waffles this morning, remember?”

There was that. It was good to know some things hadn’t been broken. Watching Zee with Toby was eerily like watching his own childhood, that memory of being in lockdown, the things he’d had to learn that none of the other kids knew. The things he learned not to talk about around grown-ups that were not hunters. It wasn’t his place to tell her what to do, but she had to know that this was no childhood.

They needed to gank _Mother_ so the kid would have a choice.


	27. Did You See It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from song by Mother Superior.

"Meet me at the door. Now."

Dean's words were clipped over the phone. Toby started straight up out of bed at the sound, grabbing for his jacket in a panic.

Zee was already moving. Kid. Weapons. She pulled the door open and looked up into green eyes as they looked down at her and at the double thick salt line behind the threshold.

"What is it?"

She stayed on the inside of the protective white barrier. Sam was standing behind Dean, scanning the parking lot uneasily. Toby's hand felt cold in hers again.

"There's something here. We've got to go. Come on."

The parking lot beyond him was full of still cars. Quiet. Sam had his Beretta out, but Dean's hands were empty. She looked down at the safety of the salt line by her feet again.

He didn't say anything more. Just waited.

She looked back up into his face, set with tight lines. Into those hazel-green eyes, remembering how they flashed to full black in the flicker of an instant. And then back again.

With the sense of stepping off a precipice, she secured Toby's hand in hers and stepped out the door.

Sam led the way towards the long black Chevy that glistened under the parking lot lights. The midnight air was freezing cold as Toby shrunk further into his jacket. Only the sound of their footsteps echoed with Toby's smaller steps plinking along as a counterpoint.

Dean wheeled around at the same moment she felt it.

A jab, deep, quick, in and out of her side at the waist. Cold, startling pain.

A stiletto blade, probably.

Warm, slow blood.

The things she needed to do were remarkably clear.

With both hands she shoved Toby towards Dean, throwing the boy off balance to propel him the last few steps across the distance between them. She might have said, "Take Toby", but there was a rushing noise in her ears like she was beneath a waterfall and she couldn't hear the sound of her own voice. She saw Dean's hands come down securely on Toby's thin shoulders and pull the child behind him.

That was enough. She didn't have time to take a breath, had to turn, had to cut the throat of her attacker.

She didn’t get that far. Her arms were rudely wrenched behind her and held tight with ice cold hands. Strange, because she could feel they were small hands. She should have been able to break the hold. She couldn't see, but it didn't feel like her captor was very tall or very large. Just wicked, unnaturally strong.

She smelled sawdust.

_Mother._

Her hands were going numb, angled awkwardly behind her. She tugged in vain, but Mother’s hand tightened reprovingly, sharp nails biting into her wrists. She struggled harder, trying to yank free somehow, when suddenly a second jab into the hole in her side brought her nearly to her knees, her eyes watering with pain. She bit down on her lips to avoid crying out, because she didn’t want Toby to totally freak out. The zombie queen murmured something, soft and saccharine, and she couldn’t quite make it out around the starry field of white blossoming in front of her eyes. The metal smell of her blood came closer—on one of Mother’s fingers, followed by the sound of a long slurping lick.

“ _Delicious_.”

She focused her eyes enough to make out the nauseated repugnance on Sam and Dean’s faces, and the sheer panic on Toby’s. She really wished Dean would cover Toby's eyes, instead of standing there looking all infuriated and threatening and helpless. Were his eyes black now? Maybe they were, focused on a point behind her shoulder, his lips forming words that were swept away by the rush of water still drumming in her ears. She really should try to pay attention. They might be saying something important.

She must be getting a little light headed, although it didn't feel like she was bleeding that badly. Toby was squirming behind Dean, trying to move towards her in response to something the crazy bitch behind her was saying. No, no, no. Why was he doing that? He was afraid of Mother, remember? She tried to tell him to stay put. To go with Dean. Dean would protect him.

Oh yeah. She was sending him off with a demon.

She was looking at the snarling demon and the crude blade in his hand. It was a funny weapon, really—didn’t look like it would have a cutting edge at all, but Mother flinched away from it, jerking on her wrists and pulling her with as she stepped back, making her move and _holy shit_ that hurt. She bit down on her lip again. The demon was looking straight at her now, and in those black eyes was a bottomless anger, a tidal wave of it threatening to swallow whatever was in its path.

And also in his eyes, _failure_.

Maybe the stiletto had punctured an organ and she was hemorrhaging internally somewhere where she couldn't feel it. That had to be it. She'd spent the last week losing blood here and there, and that must have been what was making her loopy into thinking what she saw in Dean's eyes were the words, failed couldn’t protect you.

Was he an _idiot_?

He had Toby by the scruff of his jacket, his grip firm. That was all that mattered. The rest was the risk of the job.

Her lips were slush. She tried to make the words "Just hold on to Toby" but she had no idea if she was only making random mushy mouthed motions like being on the drugs again when everything was a swirly haze of twitchy limbs jerking involuntarily outside her control and never sure what was real or memory or nightmare or truth in the never ending darkness.

Darkness.

******

There was a little thing squirming in his grasp.

With a start, Dean let go with both hands. The blade in his right clanked to the ground. The kid in his left jerked away and turned on him, shouting.

“We have to go get her!”

Pure panic and horror was in Toby’s eyes.

“You don’t understand!! We have to go now! Before Mother eats her!”

The kid was looking left and right and left again in a frenzy. He wasn’t thinking straight.

“Dean!”

Sam’s voice. Steady. Steady over the hollow rush of failure and the pummeling of the kid’s emotions, beating on him like tiny invisible fists.

He tried to orient himself to the present, to what was happening. He was in a parking lot. It was full of cars. Toby was still jabbering something about the sawmill and eating and Sam was unlocking the car.

He smelled blood.

It wasn’t much. Just a few drops.

He’d heard the knife sink into her flesh.

He hadn’t been fast enough.

One minute there was nothing. The next minute that presence coalesced behind him. Behind Zee. Coalesced out of a mist like nothing he had ever felt to date in the darkness, neither light nor dark, just hungry. So very hungry. The hunger socked him in the stomach, almost bent him double, before he could turn and see what it was.

Her outer covering was beautiful. This Mother thing. Blond curls, delicate, blue-eyed, like a living china doll. A freaky doll. She wasn’t very tall. If he squinted, he could see how she could be said to bear a passing resemblance to Toby. Enough to pass herself off as a relative, at any rate. She seemed almost frail.

What lay beneath, however.

Demon vampire shifter soul, flesh of the living, flesh of the dead. Screaming and screaming and still hungry.

She should be afraid of silver and salt and holy water. She should have died of a beheading. But none of that mattered in the face of the hunger.

Absently he picked up the First Blade from where he had dropped it.

How the hell was she doing that? What the hell was she?

Sam’s hand was pulling at him.

“Come on. We’ve got to go.”

Go where?

Toby was pushing at him. Two tiny hands on the small of his back, leaning all his weight into him, trying to get him to move in the direction of the car and getting nowhere.

He turned to face the kid, trying to school his expression. Trying to make sure his eyes were human.

“The sawmill?”

Toby nodded frantically.

He exchanged a long look with Sam. Sam tensed.

“No. You’re not going alone.”

“Sam.”

“She wants the kid. What makes you think she’s not going to just double back the minute you’re gone and take him? You saw her.”

Moving between moments. There and not there.

Like him.

The smell of blood was still in the air.

He couldn’t risk Sam.

On a frustrated curse he opened the Impala’s passenger door and got Toby inside.

“Gimme the keys.”

Sam looked surprised for a second before the keys came sailing through the air to him even as Sam moved around to the other side. He didn’t know how much time they had. He didn’t know what they would find, if it was even sane to be taking a kid along for the ride. But who were they going to leave him with?

They didn’t have time anyway.

Zee hadn’t even hesitated. She had pushed Toby towards him with both hands even as he heard the slick sucking sound of that stiletto blade pulling out of the wound in her side. Even as the first drop of blood hit the pavement. She had looked right at him, and demanded that he hang on. Hang on to the squirming child that was vulnerable in his grip. He could have snapped the kid’s neck without blinking, or entirely by accident, for all she knew.

But there it was.

He had to assume the knife hadn’t nicked anything important. Zee had paled, but she was still conscious. She was still trying to tell him something before Mother blinked the both of them away.

And there wasn’t that much blood on the ground.

His mind stayed away from the things he knew could happen. Internal bleeding. Fever and infection. The white pallor of death settling in like a caress. Wrapping the body in a sheet before committing it to flame.

No.

Not this time.

He gunned the gas.

******

“What’s the plan?”

Sam kept an eye on the side mirror for lights and sirens as the Impala pelted down the wet thruway. There was no question they were _somewhat_ over the speed limit. There was a question if Dean would even stop if the cops came up behind them. Sam crossed his fingers and sent up a silent prayer to Cas and anyone who might be watching over them.

“Gank the bitch.”

Dean’s reply was brusque. Sam looked over at Dean’s profile, dimly illuminated by light reflected from the road. Dean’s face was locked in a frown. The same frown he’d had on his face after Kevin died.

In a lot of ways the First Blade made hunting too easy. They didn’t need to look up the hows or know the whys, and it seemed to suit Dean fine. In this particular instance, however, there were about six dozen ways things could go wrong, not the least of which was sitting in the back seat, holding his breath and inhaling in alternating spasms.

Sam turned around. If he’d thought at all, he probably should have sat in the back and not left the kid there by himself to deal with whatever was going through his head now. Humongous blue eyes looked back at him as Toby bit his lips together.

“Hey. It’ll be okay. We’ll get her back.”

It was clear Toby didn’t believe him. It was also clear Toby knew more than either he or Zee had told them.

“What can you tell us about Mother, Toby?”

The kid swallowed. His voice was high and thin when he replied.

“She eats things.”

Zombies did that, but there was something more to it in this instance. Sam’s mind flashed back to what Crowley had said about Dean’s zombie bite. There was no way to phrase the next question in a non-traumatic way. He looked for the smallest, most innocuous words he could find and strung them together with a question mark at the end.

“And she’s eaten a lot of … things?”

Toby nodded and swallowed again. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and curled his fingers around something there for reassurance. 

“What kinds of things, Toby?”

Dean’s rough voice was harsh, not cutting the kid any slack, not making any attempt to be gentle. Sam shot him a look. _Dude._

But conversely, that calmed Toby down. The kid looked at the back of Dean’s head as Dean turned to look in the rearview mirror.

“Vampires. Sometimes people.” Toby’s face was sallow with memory, a pale mask in the dark. “And things that looked like people with claws and fangs sometimes.”

“Werewolves?” Sam muttered quietly in Dean’s direction. Dean cocked his head. Maybe.

“A thing like you once.” Toby said, directing his words at Dean. “Black eyes.”

“A demon?”

Toby nodded.

“That must be how she got the mojo to teleport.” Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“Angel blade?” Sam asked quietly.

“Might work. Though.”

“What?”

“Ruby’s knife.”

Sam blinked. How the hell had Dean come to that conclusion?

“Why?”

Dean ignored him and went back to interrogating.

“How is she catching these things, Toby?”

The silence from the back seat went on for so long Sam almost gave up when Toby said in a small voice, “Me.”

There was a hitch in the Impala’s motor as Dean took his foot off the gas for a second.

“How?”

_How_ like now, when they were being led like lambs to the slaughter, braving the dragon’s lair with Toby in tow, thinking they were on a rescue mission when in fact they might be pelting to their doom. Not armed with a plan, not given enough information, just blindly charging in to who knows what on the enemy’s home turf. 

Sam inhaled and looked at Dean.

Whose expression said, _Exactly._


	28. Fight the Good Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Triumph.

She was so cold.

Zee came to groggily, resisting the violent shiver that wanted to take over. Pain and nausea dominated her first awareness, then a screaming pain from the weight bearing down on her left shoulder because her arms were tied up overhead.

Don’t move. Don’t move.

She found herself trussed up like a carcass in a meat locker, suspended from the ceiling by something cold and metal she could feel between her wrists. Her toes barely touched the floor, ankles bound by rope like her wrists. She let her head hang limply as if she were still unconscious, resisting the urge to sneeze as the musty smell of sawdust tickled her nose.

She was so very cold.

It was hard not to shiver, the desire to curl up to conserve body heat overwhelming as the snow-chilled air blew around her in a draft. Voices came from her right, a male voice and a female voice. 

“A jawbone blade? Are you sure?”

“Yesssss.” Mother hissed, upset. “One that can kill me. You said there would be no weapon that could kill me.”

Her agitated footsteps paced back and forth.

“No human weapon.” The male voice corrected. The softness of it and the precise enunciation ruled out zombie. Who was that? Or, more relevantly, what was that?

Heavy footsteps walked towards her. Remaining limp and still took effort when every instinct flinched in the presence of danger. Warm fingers twisted through her hair and wrenched her head up.

Don’t look. Don’t give anything away. She kept her eyes closed and facial muscles relaxed even as her skin wanted to crawl from the eyes looking her over.

“And you’re sure he will come for her?” 

“Yes. Elias will make sure.”

“A child? You expect a mere child to hold sway over a Knight of Hell?”

Her head fell forward limply with a jerk as the hard fingers let go of her hair. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to avoid reacting and tried to focus on the conversation.

“He will come. Elias will bring them.”

There was a cool confidence in Mother’s voice. Zee tried to think through the fog in her brain. Toby. Not Elias.

Was she sure?

Toby had passed all the usual tests. She had spent the last four days with him 24/7. She was pretty sure he was human.

But human didn’t always mean innocent.

No.

She tried to block out that instinctive reaction. She thought she had gotten good enough, disciplined enough, to always see things as they were, but who was to say? She had to cut out the emotion that might be clouding her judgment. Ignore the memory of him sitting by her side, leaning against her for comfort and security. Ignore the way he placed his hand trustingly in hers as part of their now regular deal. Rationally, she had to allow for all possibilities. Rationally, she had to allow for the idea that it could all be an act.

“Dean Winchester.” The voice mused. She could feel eyes inspecting her once again. “Intriguing. I am beginning to see why Castiel is so devoted to a mere human.”

“He is no mere human.” Mother corrected harshly, something like fear in her voice.

“No. Not any longer.” The curl of a smile was evident in the speaker’s tone. It sent chills down Zee’s spine. The next words were directed away from her, towards where Mother was standing.

“He will be a feast for you, my dear. All that power could be yours for the taking, if this child can deliver him to you as you claim.”

Zee was dizzy. There was real dizziness, and then there was the complexity unfurling around her. Toby, who might not be Toby-as-she-thought. This creature, whatever he might be. He spoke Castiel’s name with a familiarity that could only be described as familial. An angel? How would she know if he was an angel? Castiel was the only angel she had ever met, and he was only half-powered at best. And he seemed human. Human-ish. How did you test for angel-ness? They were supposed to be the good guys. You weren’t supposed to have to test for that.

Then there was this other thing—this monster-on-monster cannibalism action. A transfer of powers? It was too horrifying to contemplate. But it made perfect sense. It explained how Mother could do the things she could do; float like a ghost, track like a vampire, teleport like a demon. It meant she got more powerful with every kill.

And a Knight of Hell would be quite the prize.

But how did the _angel_ figure into all this?

Her head was pounding. She had to keep her breathing even, though in all honesty, hyperventilating seemed like a darn good idea. It was enough to remember this was the kind of crap that came with tangling with the Winchesters.

Lighter footsteps moved in her direction. A sharp finger poked her wound, making it bleed again. Pain bloomed in a starry wave of white and Zee swallowed the queasy roll of her stomach, trying not to flinch.

“Elias will come for her.”

Good God. The crazy bitch actually sounded…jealous.

“He will bring them with him. He knows the rules.”

No, no, no. Surely they would be smarter than that. Surely.

Aw, fuck.

She wanted to pound her head against the ground. It couldn’t possibly make it hurt any worse.

That was the thing about best intentions and where they led. It had only taken Mother a glance to size up Dean and Sam, what they would and would not do, and one of the things they would not do, was accept that collateral damage happened. Hell, maybe she should have called Ferdie. At least Ferdie knew the boundaries of the job. Shit happened. You moved on.

“And afterwards…” Mother’s light steps walked a full circle around her.

Zee screamed as Mother jabbed her fingers into the hole in her side and ripped off a hunk of flesh.

And ate it.

Fire. Fire and acid, flaring pain streaking out along every nerve, carving into her, etching a trail that was jagged and raw. Teeth were ripping into her meat, even though nothing was touching her. She pulled away, trying to escape the molars that ground down on her flesh, chewing and chewing away at her until she was pulp. Acid carved into her skin when _Mother_ swallowed, her nerves ripping apart cell by cell, and she was lost, drowning in pain and acrid fire. She couldn’t take her mind away, couldn’t curve in on herself enough. Choking on it, the world spinning with it even when she shut her eyes.

She cringed away futilely, not caring that her violent thrashing was screaming agony. She heaved, but nothing came up. Her throat was parched and dry and hurt when she swallowed. Her stomach swam when she moved. She heaved again without result.

Fingers warm and wet with blood clamped tight around her chin and cheeks as Zee panted. Little gasps of air over the violent tremors that racked her continuously from head to foot. Those small fingers squeezed her cheeks up into her eyes and turned her head so she had to meet those hungry ice blue eyes. Forced her to look at lips and face smeared with her own blood, incongruous streaks of red on Mother’s porcelain skin.

“You will be a part of me. And my boy will love me again.”

******

The world was fuzzy when she came to again. She opened her eyelids a crack to see her booted toes still dragging on the sawmill’s dusty floor. The lack of consciousness offered some real upsides. For one thing, not feeling. Not feeling right now would be a real plus. 

She took her mind somewhere else. Here was bad. What she should do was have a peek around to see if she was under guard. If Mother was still hovering around. She should definitely check to see if there was any give in the bonds tying her, maybe see if the point on the metal hook above was sharp enough she could cut the rope at her wrists. Or try to slip off it. Bit tricky to do it unobtrusively since it was overhead, but that was her only choice.

In a minute. She’d do all that in another minute.

She was so tired. Tired was good too. If she kept her mind on the tired, the deadening fatigue, the numbing cold, the somewhat curious fact she couldn’t really feel her feet—keeping her mind on all that would keep it away from thinking about what came next. What _Mother_ had planned for her.

Just think about anything but that.

Was it possible to be conscious in pieces?

No, consciousness was bad.

That little piece she had lost. Like a phantom limb, she felt it, still screaming. Soaking in a vat of acid, slowly being digested, dissolving. Breaking down. Getting absorbed.

Into that. _Mother._

She shuddered violently, unable to suppress the reaction. Absorbed into part of that. Everything she hunted. Trapped, unable to escape, screaming and screaming for all of time to come.

Her eyes popped open. 

For God’s sake, think about something else. Anything else.

More of the floor came into view. There was a little puddle of blood by her feet. Not surprising, not worth mentioning.

Carefully she toed around, examining her surroundings by degrees. She was in a long room lit by silver moonlight streaming in through dusty windows, the far ends lost in shadow. She shivered. It was hideously drafty. Holes and bolts pockmarked the floor where heavy machinery once sat. A crudely constructed cage about five feet by four feet and the height of a child was set to one side. Just outside the cage was a little mountain of candy wrappers and empty soda bottles. Toby always declined soda when it was offered, which she had always found curious.

She moved on in her inventory. No sounds. No Mother.

No angel.

No guards.

Well, duh. She was bait. You didn’t set visible guards on a trap.

She craned her head cautiously up, ignoring the world-swimming feeling as she did that, and examined the hook that suspended her by her tied wrists from the ceiling overhead. She wriggled both hands. There wasn’t much give, but maybe. Presumably _Mother_ was nearby, because someone had to close the trap that had been baited. But damned if she was going to hang here limply like a worm on a hook and wait around to become zombie chow. It would help not to think too much and just…

She pushed off the floor as hard as she could with the toe of her boot, slipping a little in the slick blood, and gripped the ice cold metal between her wrists at the same time she pulled up. A little swing, a little slide. A little momentum, grab, push, tuck, repeat. She squeezed her eyes shut and just concentrated on gaining purchase on the metal hook where she could, ignoring the sharp jab of pain tearing through her gut and sticky splitting on her side as fresh blood oozed. The only sensation that mattered was her grip overhead; the burning sting of stiff cold muscles asked to move was irrelevant. She could slip off this hook with just one more swing. She gathered enough air and locked her jaw. Just one more.

The shock of the floor hitting her knees went straight up into her teeth. Her shoulder slammed into the wooden floor, kicking up a cloud of dust as she rolled awkwardly, trying to right herself so her hands could reach the rope on her ankles. She had her fingers around the first knot when fingers threaded through her hair and jerked her up by the head into a kneeling position.

“That’s enough.”

In a panic, she tried to jerk away from Mother’s icy touch, the movement too revealing. She was gasping, each breath short and sharp with exertion and pain and fear. The fingers in her hair tugged and she was forced to look up into the zombie queen’s powdered face. The life-sized doll had cleaned off the smear of blood around her mouth and redone her lipstick, a shade of pale pink that went beautifully with her porcelain complexion. Those thin lips curved slowly upward into a smile as her ice blue eyes looked off towards the shadowy end of the room.

A squeak of footstep came from the far edge of the room. Zee swore. She hadn’t had time to teach Toby to walk quietly. That was the sound he made when he went across flooring—or at least the sound of untrained feet. Small steps, not much weight on them.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

She head butted the crazy zombie queen, right on her pert little nose, feeling a small spurt of satisfaction as she felt it give. She squiggled away awkwardly like a worm, the motion loosening the tight constraints on her ankles before cold hands grasped her by the hair again. A different clump of hair, since the last bunch was lying on the floor like a limp talisman where Mother had cast it aside angrily. A dark ooze of blood trickled from the zombie queen’s nose down over a tight, displeased frown before it was wiped away. The hand in her hair tightened painfully, pulling her head up and back until her neck was bared to the arctic air.

The cold edge of a knife rested against her throat.

“Mama, wait!”

Toby.

“ _Elias._ ”

She could feel Mother’s soft purr of satisfaction in that word.

“I’ve brought you good ones this time, Mama.”

Toby?

Zee closed her eyes. She wouldn’t believe it. The evidence of her ears, the cool flow of logic, the tight fit of the trap. She wouldn’t believe it. She knew Toby. And he was _Toby_.

Her ears strained, listening for Toby’s backup. The brothers had to be out there somewhere. At least, they damned well better be, if Toby was here. 

Heavier footsteps followed. One set.

“Let her go.” Dean’s voice.

“Or what, Demon?” Mother asked silkily. “Your blade is useless here, unless you want your friend to die.”

There was a stony-glaring kind of silence.

Zee started to laugh. She was a teeny tiny bit woozy and her laughter sounded insane. Laughing hurt. It was actually more a wheezy kind of crazed cackling, but it hurt anyway. She could feel two pairs of so-not-amused eyes on her.

She opened her eyes to look into Dean Winchester’s green ones, standing there, glowering at her again, the First Blade clenched tightly in his right hand, mouth drawn down in a forbidding, what-the-hell-are-you-doing kind of line. Zee knew she was a little loopy from blood loss, but she went on.

“You do hear yourself, right? Demons don’t do _friends._ ”

Another clot of hair nearly got yanked out again with the next hard tug on her head as the zombie queen tightened her fingers with displeasure at Zee’s logic. 

“And yet. He’s here. And he stays his hand.”

Yeah. There was that. Man, he was really _bad_ at being a demon.

The knife dug lightly into her skin. Zee looked a question at Dean. _What-are-you-waiting-for?_ Plan B? Plan C? 

Oh, come on. Surely he could teleport behind the witch, knife her, and be done with this. Fifty-fifty odds on who was going to be faster with what knife, but they were hunters. The short straw was a part of the life. Play often enough, it was just a matter of time. She tried to signal him with a blink. _Come on. Get on with it._

“Bring me his weapon, Elias.”

Damn it.

The sound of Toby’s light footsteps padded across the room. Stopped.

“My sweet boy.” The zombie queen murmured. “We’ll feast well tonight.”

We?

As if that single word were a summons, two shadows coalesced, one to either side of Dean. He twisted, sensing their appearance, taking a single step back. He would have gotten away except Toby’s hand closed over his and he stopped, held in place by that tentative touch. Zombie hands clamped down hard on Dean’s arms, restraining him as Toby took the First Blade from Dean’s unresisting hand.

Good God.

“Get the other one.” Mother’s order was curt.

Sounds of a struggle and a scuffling of feet came from the distance.

“Sam!”

Two more zombie-demons dragged Sam Winchester in from the far end of the room, grasping him firmly by the upper arms. Sam gave Dean a distressed look as one of the zombies sniffed his shoulder hungrily. Sam pulled on that shoulder to no avail.

Dean twisted futilely, trying to get loose.

“I think we’ll start our meal with you first, Demon. If you behave, I promise we’ll slit your brother’s throat cleanly before we start on him. A quick death. Mostly painless. At least, for the dying part, anyway. If you’re very good, the same for the girl.”

Mother stepped forward with anticipation, dragging Zee along by the hair. Zee hung in her grasp limply, trying to slow her with dead weight, but it made no difference. She had only a brief glimpse of the stony expression on Dean’s face as he remained restrained, empty-handed. Toby stayed at his side, holding the ancient weapon by the hilt.

“How are they doing that?” Dean asked, narrow-eyed. “Zombies don’t teleport.”

“They do if you feed them right.” Mother gloated. “A little gift from our friend.”

The angel. The angel had caught them a demon so they could absorb its powers.

Zee glanced frantically around, pulling on Mother’s tight hold. She didn’t sense that eerily odd presence lurking in the shadows, but what was to say she could? He was a bloody frickin’ angel.

Dean was watching her carefully. His glance slid all the way around the room before coming back to her. _What?_

She glared at him. She was not fluent in _brother-look-speak._ He was awfully collected, all things considered. If the boys had a plan, now would be a good time to execute it. Before they were, you know, dinner.

“Elias. Bring me the blade.”

Mother beckoned to the kid, holding the First Blade awkwardly, the tip of it dragging on the floor. He hefted it like it was heavy, grabbing it by the leather bound hilt with both hands and hauling it behind him. Mother’s smile was pleased and indulgent as Elias-Toby made his way to her across the floor. 

Zee only recognized the minute change in grip because she had done it a thousand times. It was a tiny shift in the triceps, fingers curling under, hand-change over, blade up, step and lunge. Toby had seen her do it yesterday and the day before, practicing, repeating the same motion over and over. He had stood off to one side and pretended. Like a kid playing a game. His movements were loose and uncoordinated, without the precision and control needed to be effective, but he had the element of surprise and a running start. Mother bent forward with an oooof as the tip of the First Blade caught her square in the midriff just below the rib cage as Toby switched up his grip and charged in with the old jawbone.

The dull tip met resistance and bounced off harmlessly, not enough force and strength behind it to do any damage.

Zee went sprawling with a splat as Mother let her go, both white hands reaching to seize Toby by his thin shoulders, her beautiful face twisting with rage. With a kind of a flip and a flop, Zee twisted until she was on her knees, facing Mother, and wrapped her awkwardly bound hands around Toby’s smaller ones. She jammed the blade forcefully home, using her weight as leverage. Black blood hit her in the face from the wound, foul and sour. The zombie queen shrieked in anger and shock, as sudden sounds of fighting erupted behind them, the boys breaking free of their captors in the moment of surprise.

“Sam!”

A jagged hunting blade sailed through the air from one brother to the other. Sam caught it one handed and drove it into the skull of the zombie on his left. A muted orange glow flashed and the corpse fell heavily to the ground. 

Zee shouldered Toby around so he was behind her. She could feel him trembling, rage or fright or both.

Mother started to laugh. High-pitched, jubilant laughter, as the zombie queen slowly straightened. Zee almost let go of the ancient blade in shock as she watched the wound before her slowly start to close, black blood retracting. The high laughter continued, shrill and relieved.

“It’s just a knife.” Gleeful victory colored Mother’s voice. “An ordinary knife.”

Mother reached forward. Pale hands rested on Zee’s cheeks, tightening in preparation for a quick, removing twist.

She wished there was some way to protect Toby from having to see this.

“Guess again, _bitch_.”

The low growl was right next to her ear. Dean’s hand closed over hers on the hilt of the First Blade. As his fingers wrapped all the way around just underneath the guard, a rush of power Zee only grasped the edges of flowed through to the blade from the demon that materialized behind her and Mother screamed. A deep red glow like embers mixed with lightening flashed through the zombie queen’s skull and blew out her eyes. Zee let go of the summoning pull of the dark hilt and turned, gathering Toby to her as best she could, tucking his face into her shoulder and turning them both away from the heat and the brilliance and the vortex of fire that erupted where Mother was standing.

Ashes fell quietly on them like snowflakes in the ensuing silence.

Toby quivered in the circle of her arms. Hands came around on her wrists, cutting through the rope around them. As the rope dropped off, she collected Toby to her, one hand on his back, the other gently on his head as he sobbed, the adrenaline draining out of him and leaving nothing but shivering shock behind. His hands were tight around her neck, clinging on for dear life.

“It’s over. It’s over now. You did good. It’s over.” She rubbed his back gently as she murmured, the words soft and raspy and a little hoarse, the same ones over and over again. “It’s all over.”

She lifted her head to meet Dean’s steady gaze, across the top of Toby’s blond head buried against her shoulder.

_What did we just do?_

His face was tight with understanding, hard with circumstance, as he looked down at the child in her arms. She took a deep breath and held Toby tighter to her. She shut her eyes against the road ahead of him. The road they had just put him on.

Dean took a step forward, laid a hand on Toby’s shoulder. Toby sniffled once, long and hard, tamping down on the tremors that shook his hands, and sniffed again before straightening away. He turned around and looked up at Dean, wiping his nose and eyes ineffectively with the back of his hands and squaring his shoulders.

Dean knelt and met him level, eye-to-eye. He nodded once, catching Toby’s eye firmly. Toby’s shoulders squared a little more, like he might have done for the LT once upon a time.

Nothing was set in stone yet. There was still time to change things. Still time to get off this path.

There was still time.

Sam padded up next to them solemnly, tucking the jagged inscribed blade in his hand securely away in his jacket. Zee sat wearily down on her calves. Her ankles were still hobbled. She should probably do something about that now that her hands were free. She’d just stay still a minute to catch her breath and wait for things to stop spinning, then she’d get on with it.

She’d get on with it all, in a minute.

******

God dammit.

She was too stubborn. And Sam was driving too slowly.

He didn’t like being in the backseat of the Impala, stuck as a passenger with Toby crowding him anxiously over Zee’s still form. He didn’t like the way her pulse was thready under his fingertips, coming and going under her ice cold skin. He didn’t like the way she had listed then toppled over to one side, eyes rolling up into the back of her head without another word.

Not that he would have done any different.

No. He’d have called out to Sam. Little help.

He’d met Sam’s eyes over her inert figure when they both saw the jagged gash in her side, raw and bleeding like a hunk had been torn clean off. Sam had finished cutting the rope at her ankles and taken Toby, or tried to take Toby, at any rate. It didn’t work, so they moved on to the next order of business, getting their lies straight.

“Wild animal bite?”

“Rope burns?”

Dean checked her wrists. The rope had gone over her sleeves, fortunately, so the marks were faint.

“Not too bad. We’ll get away with it. What’s closest?”

He scooped her up as he spoke, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Little Falls, probably.”

She was still too cold. He kept his body temperature up to warm her, kept her close against him in the already sweltering warmth of the car as Sam had the heater set at full blast. Her breaths were shallow, coming and going erratically. Sam glanced back anxiously through the rearview mirror, silently asking for a sit-rep. Keep going? Or did they need to turn off and find a clearing with some wood?

Dean returned the look silently.

Keep going. Just keep going.


	29. Enter Sandman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Metallica.

It was chaos. But then the ER always was.

He had Toby by one hand so he wouldn’t lose track of him. The questions were endless. The things they didn’t know about the girl were legion. Plus, they all looked like they had been in a bar brawl with a bear.

Eyebrows were raised.

They lied like pros. 

Sam met his eyes in the ensuing mess. _Go?_

He looked down at the kid by his side. The hard bite of lips compressed tightly together, blue eyes dry. Only the occasional giant inhale gave the boy’s fears away.

Déjà vu.

He shook his head at Sam, his own mouth turning down.

Not yet.

******

_Sister Agnes was holding her down. She squirmed, fighting, because Sister Agnes had black eyes, black eyes and horns and a scaly hand around her chin, tilting her head up, trying to get her to open her mouth. The scratchy drape of Sister Margaret’s habit brushed her face, smelling of incense and cloves, before Sister Margaret pinched her nose shut. She lashed out, her feeble fist connecting with something soft. She tried twisting her head, but the fingers crimping off her air just pinched down harder, holding her in place._

_Whiteness swam before her eyes._

_No. No. NO._

_She gasped, opening her mouth for air._

_Quick as a snake strike there was a bitter tablet on her tongue and her mouth was being held shut._

_NO._

_“Hush. Hush, child. Hush now. Sleep.”_

_NO._

_No._

_no_

******

“Find any relatives?”

Sam’s face was grim, so Dean knew the answer already, but he asked anyway. Zee would have run the search first thing herself, and the fact that Toby was still with her said pretty much everything they needed to know. There’d been no place to take him. 

He glanced over at the sleeping kid, curled up on the hospital room’s sole cushioned chair, tucked under his heavy jacket. Toby was going to wake up flailing in about 30 minutes, the leading edge of a scream in his throat before he swallowed it.

The monitors by the bed beeped when Zee flinched. He jumped and Sam jumped when she swung wildly with her right hand, then that hand shot under the pillow, looking for a weapon that wasn’t there.

“Shit.” He murmured under his breath, moving to keep her still before she tore the iv out of her arm.

His touch was light. He knew that. But the second she felt his fingers restraining her wrist, she tried to clock him, left arm coming up cocked with a fist that would have caught him on the chin had he not ducked.

“ _SAM._ ” He hissed, but Sam was already there.

“Shhh.” Sam said in a panic, trying to catch her waving arm without hurting her. “Shhhhh.”

She got Sam with an elbow, right on the nose, tracking his voice. Sam jerked backwards.

“OW!”

Her eyelids were fluttering, struggling to open. She wasn’t even fully conscious yet.

She was reaching blindly for the bedside table now. There wasn’t anything on the plastic surface, but it wasn’t a hard guess to know there was supposed to be.

Normal people didn’t wake up this way.

He caught her hand in his, and curled his fingers securely through hers before she could go weapon hunting again. The last thing they needed was to set off the alarms that would bring the nurses back in here.

Her eyes popped open. She was incredibly agitated for someone doped up on drugs.

She squinted in his direction, as if there might be two of him. That probably wasn’t helping. She made a croak of sound. He couldn’t make it out.

Cautiously he leaned in so he could hear.

Sam stiffened when he reared back and looked down at her with a frown.

“No. Not a good idea.”

She insisted, squeezing his hand for emphasis.

Inwardly he swore. It didn’t matter that he got it.

She was trying to free her hand again. What the hell? Oh no. Come on.

She wanted to get up.

Son of a bitch.

“Fine.”

She was still trying to talk, squinting suspiciously at the unhappiness on his face. 

His hand tightened around hers.

“I’ll take care of it. Just…try to rest.”

******

_It smelled of candles and cedar and iron and blood. Cold hands yanked her right arm away from her chest, peeled her protective fingers away from the shallow slice across the center of her palm, bending her fingers back until the cut stung and bled. She whimpered softly, unable to help herself. Then she was being picked up, her short legs dangling in the air, maneuvered so her palm rested on the recessed center of the elaborately wrought door. The dark metal was cold, her warm blood squishing wetly onto the rough surface until there were a series of clicks._

_“Take the brat away.”_

_Cool fabric against her hand, carelessly wrapping around the cut. She kept her eyes on the floor, not wanting to look, because things looked funny. Candlelight was funny. It made strange shapes over people’s heads, did strange things to their eyes. She kept her eyes on the floor as she was carried to the other door, the normal door, clutching her wrapped hand to her chest._

_Stay quiet, stay quiet, stay quiet._

_You know what happens if you don’t._

******

Sam looked at him like he was crazy.

“That’s not a good idea.”

Didn’t he just say that?

“Why?”

How would he know? Hunters were hunters. They had weirder quirks than most. He shrugged.

“Dean.”

Sam pulled out his _I-know-better_ voice. He looked pointedly at Sam’s red nose.

“She’s already on morphine, dude. She’s just going to keep fighting it. You saw her.”

Sam looked dubious.

He scowled. That need for control, for constant vigilance—he understood it. And he had promised.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Sam muttered under his breath as they found the doctor in charge.

Not really, but when did he ever?

******

_Fire._

_There were flames licking at her skin._

_Automatically she twisted, trying to stop, drop and roll._

_Pain tore up her side, stunning and white, bringing tears to her eyes. She bit the inside of her cheek to avoid crying out. There would be pills if she made noise, and she hated the pills. The pills made everything fuzzy; made it hard to tell what was real. She curled up, clenching in on herself tight, willing the blinding pain to go away. She just had to concentrate. Mind over matter._

_Focus._

_She sniffed a tight, shivering breath. Ah god, that HURT. Clawed fingers dug deep into her side, twisting and pulling. She batted at where it hurt, jerked wildly when icy cold fingers gripped her wrist, cried out when something_ BIT _down into her flesh. Fiery poison spread, burning painfully in her blood. Everything blurred, the velvet smooth voice of an angel whispering, mingling with Mother’s tinkling laugh. Delicate China doll hands tore into her, ripped at her. She was being chewed up between dull teeth, her will ground down to pulp, stinging acid eating away at everything until she was nothing, consumed, and becoming, turning into all the things she hunted. Hungry. She looked down at her hands and didn’t recognize them, because they were pale with pink nails and holding a jagged hunk of pink-red flesh, still dripping with blood._

_She looked up into ice blue angel eyes staring at her, willing her to eat._

_She was starving. She opened her mouth._

_NO._

With a gasping cough she woke, her hands flinging nothingness to one side, trying to throw away the bloody fragment of a nightmare. In a panic, she tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were stuck shut. Blindly she coughed again, trying to spit out the taste of bile and blood, hack up a lung if she needed to, just to get the taste out of her mouth.

“Hey.”

She took a swing at the voice.

“ _son of a …”_

A little to the right.

“HEY! _Hey_. Stop that. Hey. Easy. _EASY_!”

Just like that both her wrists were caught and held, someone applying just enough pressure to keep her from swinging her arms, being surprisingly careful not to bruise.

_“EASY.”_

She tried again to peel her eyelids open, though they felt thick and caked and sluggish. She pulled against the calloused hands, jerking away at the thoroughly odd sensation of someone running their thumb soothingly along the inside of her right wrist.

“ _Easy.”_

She didn’t do _easy_. She pulled again, hard with all her strength, twisting at the waist to get away from the restraining hands.

Mind-blowing pain flared like fire, white hot and blinding, shooting up each and every single nerve, finding ones she didn’t even know she had. Something tore at her side, the agony of it drowning out the rapid stream of curse words being muttered above her head. She stopped moving abruptly, because it hurt too damned much, and concentrated on breathing. In out in out in out in small pants, desperate sounding, her eyes watering and her teeth grit tight and it hurt so damned much because, right, no painkillers.

She’d asked someone about that. The someone who was cussing a blue streak over her head, left hand moving up to her shoulder to make sure she kept still.

Right.

_Dean_.

She licked experimentally at her lips, trying to sort out consciousness. Separating nightmare from reality, past from present. She brought her freed left arm in around herself, scrunching up tight into a ball like it might help, wrapping herself around the pain, a bitter taste still in her mouth, unable to control the shudder that racked her from head to foot.

"Zee?”

That stroking motion again. Up and down along the old scar on her wrist, and she focused on it, trying to take her mind away from the pain.

“Hey.”

A finger brushed at the uncomfortable strand of hair that had gotten caught in her mouth while she struggled. She forced her eyes to open and her head to turn in response to his voice, and blinked from the harshness of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Green eyes came into view, partnered with a frown.

_“Are you sure? About the drugs?”_

Yes. Yes yes yes yes. She nodded once, breathed around the flare of nausea that came with movement and then nodded emphatically again to make sure he got it. His lips twisted down severely, looking strange for a demon. She went for nodding again, to emphasize she didn’t want to be doped up, because as bad as this was, it was preferable to whatever that other thing was, the taste of flesh and blood in her mouth, the weird, insatiable hunger of the morphine induced dreams. His hand around her wrist tightened and he let out a frustrated sigh.

His thumb resumed that stroking thing again. She went back to concentrating on the sensation, a borrowed focal point, looking for control. She took a shaky deeper breath and willed herself to uncurl. She eased her legs out slowly, flinching when a red hot jab of pain spiked with the movement. Dean’s frown deepened at the amount of effort it was taking her, but he said nothing. She sucked in a deeper breath and held it until she could look him in the eye. She turned her head around slowly, taking in the whiteness of the hospital room and the blipping machinery by the bed.

She croaked out a question.

“Toby?”

“He’s fine. I sent him off to get lunch with Sam.”

She nodded once. Dark sleep was pulling at her again, dragging her under. She fought it, not wanting the things sleep would bring. She needed to stay awake and in control.

Dean’s fingers laced through hers as she tried to keep her head from drooping back into the sterile smelling pillow. He was running his thumb absently along her wrist still, each stroke steady and hypnotic against her skin, punctuating the low murmur of his words.

“Sleep. I’ve got you. Just sleep.”

******

“Dean.”

A nurse walked by. Sam shut up and smiled. _Nothing to see here_. Not the clusterfuck of supernatural coincidences nucleating like a gathering storm, not the lousy premonition sending chills down his spine, creeping him the fuck out.

They should get the hell out of Dodge.

They were standing just outside the hospital room, where he could keep one eye on the sleeping kid while Sam made his arguments to stay. It was against the rules, sticking around after a job was done, because there was always a mess. But it was a _people_ mess, and folks were surprisingly tough. They picked up what was left of their lives after having had it turned upside down, by ghosts, by revenants, by werewolves or by demons, and they went on. It was easier to recover if everything about the nightmare just went away, and that included the hunters that had come with it.

“She _is_ a hunter. The rules don’t apply.”

He narrowed his eyes and scowled tightly at Sam. Sam stared right back, undeterred.

“And you heard her. She said _angel._ ”

He glared at his brother.

“There were no angels there, Sam. I would have sensed it. She’s still half drugged. For all we know, she’s sweet talking in her dreams to some _guy_.”

The _get-real_ look Sam leveled at him was loaded. There were hunters and there were _hunters_ , and Ninja here could give a snowman frostbite. The idea of her calling _anyone_ by some pet name had about as much chance as a pig with wings. 

Toby fidgeted restlessly in his sleep on the hospital chair, caught up in another nightmare. The fuzzy blue blanket he’d put over the boy slipped to the floor, and automatically he moved back into the room to drape it back over the kid. Sam watched him with too keen eyes, making mountains out of molehills, before Sam followed him into the room, looking down at Toby.

“Besides, we can’t just leave the kid alone.”

He flicked an irritated glare at Sam. Sam was pushing, and he had some inkling what Sam was angling for. He wasn’t making that mistake again. Déjà vu, being in a hospital room like this, Ben glaring daggers at him, silent and sullen and it had all been his fault. He should never have gotten anyone involved in his mess. He wasn’t doing it again.

_Angel_.

She had been trying to warn him about something, back at that sawmill. But he hadn’t felt anything. Anyone. And nothing had shown up.

She had to be talking about something else. Some other hunt, maybe.

His lips pursed. There was no angel blade in her things. She wouldn’t have survived a run-in with the holy rollers, unless she knew about the Oz sigil, but there was no sign of that either. There were a bunch of fine white scar lines on her right palm, but they were faint and old, matching the barely visible scar angling down her right wrist that must have been one helluva nasty gash a long time ago. The docs had given him a downright skank look when they’d checked her over and discovered all that, plus the do-it-yourself patch job she’d done on the fresh rip running down her left shoulder blade; the new one she hadn’t seen fit to _say_ anything about, surprise, surprise, but that scar looked more zombie than angel.

So how _did_ an angel figure into all this?

Sam had fallen silent, watching him. Watching him, because Sam already knew he’d reach the unavoidable conclusion he didn’t want to reach.

Fuck. 


	30. City Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Black Mustang.

_This_ was not the plan.

She was in the passenger seat of her own damned car, glaring at the back of Dean Winchester’s head. Sam Winchester was making mollifying faces at her from where he sat shotgun, trying to make the best of a bad situation.

She should have known this was going to go south with that first sketchy look the brothers had traded when she tried to sweet talk the doctors into releasing her ‘against advice’. She should have _known_ it was trouble when Dean unexpectedly backed her move, smiling the smooth smile of a professional hustler, sincerely promising the reluctant docs he would ‘take good care of her’. She should have expected it when he turned up driving the Durango instead of the Impala, a declaration of lockdown if there ever was one.

The heat of his breath was hot by her ear when he leaned down to tug her duffel free of her stiff fingers, his barely audible warning a caution against her skin, “ _Don’t.”_

She set her jaw and gripped her duffel stubbornly while the watching nurse twitched with uncertainty. 

Green eyes stared into hers at close range: _you want out of here or not?_

Reluctantly she let go. She let Sam put a hand under her elbow and help her into the back of the SUV. She let the demon usher Toby in beside her, and she let the demon take the wheel. Her flat of holy water had been moved prudently out of her reach, and Sam stayed watchfully half turned in his seat, his smile rueful and apologetic.

“You said _angel_.”

She gazed at him narrowly. “I did?”

Sam nodded mutely. In the rearview mirror Dean watched her, his attention divided between her and the road. Her hand tightened warningly over Toby’s beside her when Toby opened his mouth. She didn’t know what was going on, but she wanted out of it. She didn’t want Toby caught up in it. She focused on the hard eyes still staring at her in the rearview mirror.

“Obviously, he wasn’t interested in _me_.”

A speaking look went left to right from Dean to Sam, like that was not obvious at all.

“Obviously.” Dean scowled dryly. 

“ _I_ was right there.” She pointed out. The angel, if that had been an angel, hadn’t wanted her. What it wanted was the demon Knight of Hell in front of her, deceptively human eyes raking over her face, before looking back to the road again.

“Look, sister. If they’ve got wind that the two of you are in with us…” He broke off unhappily and shot an irritated look sideways at Sam, as if _he_ were the wronged party here. “It might be best if we hang out for a while. Just to be on the safe side.”

“ _What_? _No_!” The words spilled out before she could catch them. They were not _in with_ anyone. She glared at the short hairs on the back of his neck, her temper spiking. There were rules. The job was over. You moved on. She was grateful that they had stayed to look after Toby. She was grateful for the long hours she had felt Dean’s hand over hers, a solid anchor to reality in the haze of nightmares and pain, his thumb stroking patiently over her wrist, if only to keep her from pulling out her iv. But there were rules for a reason. She met those clear green eyes in the rearview mirror, and glared harder. This was where they parted company, adios, sayonara, fare thee well.

She took a short, calming breath and tried for politeness. “I mean, thank you. Both. For everything. But.” She met Dean’s eyes in the rearview straight on. “We’ll manage. On our own.”

Her hand tightened over Toby’s when Toby twitched again, speaking volumes at her with his eyes. He wanted them to stay. He looked towards Dean then back at her again, a bad case of hero worship in the making, and it was all the more reason to split. Toby squinted fiercely at her when she silently signaled her _no_ , reluctantly subsiding with a pout.

Dean’s smile was thin and unamused. More importantly, it was unmoved.

Her eyes narrowed. So. That’s how this was going to go.

******

Dinner was a tense affair.

He took Toby with him to get the pizzas, leaving Sam to babysit the ninja, and from the glinty look she shot him, she knew exactly what he was doing. Divide and conquer, only not so much conquer as insurance. Even as banged up as she was, he wasn’t sure she couldn’t slip Sam, but he _was_ sure she wouldn’t leave the kid. The kid didn’t seem as sure of that, though, because Toby made a beeline for her the second Sam got the door open, eyes fixed on her like she was going to disappear if he didn’t have her in his sights.

“We got soup and we got pie. Dean said you would want soup and I said you would want pie.” Toby waved the two paper bags up at her, one in each hand. “So here’s soup and here’s pie.”

Her face softened when she looked at the kid. He felt it like a blow to his stomach, because he remembered that expression, and he wanted it for himself in a way he shouldn’t. He kicked the door closed with his foot, and juggled the pizza onto the table while Sam took the beers from him.

She smiled at the kid. The expression was faint, rusty, like she wasn’t used to it.

“I’ll take the soup. You have the pie.”

Toby beamed. The kid was a pie fiend, but he would have given it up if she’d wanted it. Toby held the soup out expectantly, and beamed up at her expectantly some more, as if he expected her to drink the whole thing, like right now.

Dean set a paper plate out for the kid on the motel’s square table, crowded with the pizza box and Sam’s laptop and research hogging a whole side of it. 

“C’mon tiger, before it gets cold.”

Toby turned and flashed him and the pizza on the table a glance. _One minute_ , Toby said, without actually saying the words. He caught the way Zee tracked the silent conversation with a narrowing of her eyes. It wasn’t anything new, because Toby had been doing something like it for the last four days, but it was more obvious here, without the noise and bustle of the hospital humming around them as a distraction. She didn’t like it, the way Toby was taking to the uncertain rhythm of the life like a duck to water. It was better than what the kid had before, being a zombie captive monster bait, but still. 

“Go on, go eat.” She took the soup from Toby with a nod towards the table. Dean looked down into the grocery bag, fishing around for Sam’s salad. She had a point. It was too comfortable, the way the kid looked to him, not doubting that he’d take care of things, when he was the last person, the last monster, that the kid should trust.

He thrust the salad out at Sam to find Sam watching him over the laptop screen, a speculative gleam in Sammy’s eyes. He ignored that studiously.

“Anything?” He nodded towards the laptop as Toby settled himself into his seat.

Sam huffed a frustrated breath before reaching over to rummage in the grocery bags for a fork. “There’s too much. It could be a spell. Remember the Thule? Or it could be something like Samhain. Or even Death himself. But raising the dead is usually a Hell-related thing. There’s nothing in the lore about Heaven doing anything like it.”

He twitched at Sam’s obvious omission. Cas’ handprint was still on his shoulder. Sam darted him a guilty look and hastily added, “Or at least, angels don’t usually bring the dead back as zombies.”

He pursed his lips and set Toby’s carton of milk down in front of him.

“What about these new guys, the Fallen?”

Sam speared a lettuce leaf and thumbed through his notes absently, not paying any attention to the way Toby was craning his head around to look at the laptop screen.

“The last time the Fallen were on earth, it seemed like all they wanted to do was have a good time and play at being demi-gods. The one we ran into, Arkas? He was one of their leaders. There isn’t much lore on them, seeing how they’ve been in Heaven’s Guantanamo pretty much near forever.”

“What’s a Fallen?” Toby interrupted, eyes bright with too much curiosity.

“Um.” Sam looked sideways at him for help. He raised a silent eyebrow, and left it up to Sam, who randomly came up with, “A Transformer?”

Dean refrained from rolling his eyes. Sam deserved the narrow look Toby fixed on him.

“Autobots aren’t real. Even I know that.”

Sam threw a panicked sideways glance at him as a kid not even half his size stared him down. Dean kept his mouth shut, because he’d been on the receiving end of Toby’s earnest stare, and he knew it was damned hard to pull off a good lie when the kid did that.

“It’s an angel. A fallen angel.” The ninja supplied from across the room, in a voice as cool as ice water. 

“Oh.” Toby said, abruptly glancing down at his half eaten slice of pizza, the kid’s expression closing up in a way he must have picked up from the ninja. The kid swallowed convulsively, and he couldn’t even imagine the things the kid must have seen. 

“Hey.” He said, reaching out. “It’s going to be okay. We won’t let them get you again.”

Toby looked up at him suddenly, the kid’s stare as direct as ever.

“That angel’s bad. Don’t let him catch you.”

His breath stuck in his throat at the protective fierceness in the kid’s voice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ninja tense up, because it was the _wrong_ decision, siding with a _demon_ over an _angel_. It wasn’t a good idea, the faith in Toby’s eyes, looking at him the way Ben had looked at him once, as if he could hold back the monsters and save the world. And look where that had gotten him.

Abruptly he pushed back from the table. The pint of soup lay untouched on the nightstand next to the ninja, because she knew better. Don’t take candy from strangers. Don’t ever trust a demon. She wasn’t ever going to ease up and rest with him in the room, and she was right about that too. Even though Sam had barely started in on his salad he signaled for Sam to wrap things up, get his gear packed up. He stared blankly at the six-pack of beer by his hand, wishing he could feel the bite of numbness that a drink would bring. He forced himself to muster up a semi-reassuring smile for Toby.

“I’ll be careful.” He reached out and ruffled Toby’s hair when Toby’s face turned worried, watching Sam gathering their gear. “Hey. Hey, we’re not leaving. We’re going to be right next door, alright? Now, you know how to lay down a salt line?”

Toby nodded.

“Okay. I want you to put one down after we’re out the door. It’ll keep out any …”

“Ghosts and demons.” Toby finished for him. “But…”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to keep an ear out on you guys, alright? And Sam can break the line if we need to, right, Sammy?” He didn’t look across the room at Soulless when he said this. It was a compromise. Because Sam was still human, and she could trust Sam.

Toby, however, gave Sam another look, a searching once over that didn’t at all belong in the eyes of an eight year old, too skeptical and too keen. Toby darted a look over his shoulder at Zee, waiting for her faint nod before he turned back to them.

“Yeah. Okay. I guess.”


	31. Play with Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Rolling Stones.

She’d hotwired her car.

Getting them an adjoining motel room was a _courtesy_. He should have known better. His spidey _sense_ of them dropped off his radar abruptly sometime between 3 and 4—hex bags, dammit, he thought he’d been through her stuff—and if he had been asleep at all, they’d have lost them by the time he rousted Sam out of bed and into the Impala.

“We’re driving around in circles, you know.” Sam remarked mildly as he read the road signs flashing past green and white in the misting rain.

“No shit. What’d you think was going to happen? She’s not going within a hundred miles of her bat cave with me around. She’s not stupid.”

Sam slanted him a look at the aggravation in his voice.

They were meandering south, vaguely following the broad turns of the Susquehanna through the Endless Mountains. There’d been a stretch about fifty miles back when they’d gone off onto a dirt track, when for a moment he’d thought she was going to do the sensible thing and find a neutral bolt hole and stop. Get some rest. If he remembered correctly, Rufus had a backup-backup cabin around here somewhere. But no. It was just another long, muddy, bumpy loop, and he was going to have to wash Baby off again when they stopped for the night.

Her attempts to ditch him today were only half-hearted. Unlike yesterday’s erratic pain-in-the-ass weaving through city traffic, today they were far out into the countryside on a quiet two-lane road. And Sam was right; they were just going around in ever widening circles as the morning wore on. 

She had to be dead beat.

“C’mon, Sam. Maybe we should just go. How do we know we’re not the problem? Maybe they’d be better away from us. I’m the one the angels want.”

Sam didn’t even bother arguing. Sam just gave him The Look.

Fine. So he hadn’t forgotten about the ghost. Or the ghouls.

Between the four of them, _someone_ was a monster magnet.

_Someone_ was trouble.

It was true the ghost from last night hadn’t targeted the kid or the girl. The transparent, shabbier version of Elmer Fudd had just appeared in _their_ room, and randomly picked Sam to throw across the length of it with a crash before he could say boo. The noise brought her running from next door in time to see him swatting at the flickering shade, the kid two steps behind her.

Next thing he knew, he heard car doors being opened and slammed shut. If she was going to pull a runner, it was a prime time, while he had his hands full.

He really wasn’t expecting her to come back. But she did.

_With the kid._

She handed the kid the sawed-off. He had a nasty flashback to Ben in that grungy warehouse when Toby took the gun from her and positioned it awkwardly against his shoulder as she rattled off instructions in a curt, clipped voice while she worked laying down the salt line all around them and an unconscious Sam. A lamp crashed over his head before he swung through Elmer again. He barked at her.

“Can you hold him off? His bones are clear across town.”

The look she gave him was glacially eloquent.

_Not an idiot._

She took the gun from the kid and handed the boy an iron crowbar the kid could barely lift, never mind swing. She bent down to check Sam’s pulse. 

He let go of the breath he’d been holding when she gave him a short nod— _he’s fine_. Of course, she topped that off with the impatient glare he was coming to know— _what are you waiting for? Bones to burn?_

Digging graves still took time. By the time he got back, Sam was weaving groggily around with the crowbar in one hand and the kid stuck to one leg, anchoring him inside the ring of salt. She was somehow clear across the room, sitting up with a grimace, the remnants of the heavy and ancient television in pieces around her.

He wasn’t going to ask.

The ghouls had come bumbling around just before dawn. He thought Sam was sleeping off the bump on his head when he ducked out to take care of it. It hadn’t taken long. But when he got back, Sam’s eyes were wide open and he got it with both barrels.

“What was that?”

Sam was looking at the blood on the First Blade.

He didn’t answer while he found something to clean the blood off with.

“Dean.”

“Ghouls.”

“ _HERE_?”

He resigned himself to the third degree.

“Out back a ways.”

“How many?”

“Just two. I heard them.”

He didn’t say _felt_ , but Sam’s face darkened unhappily. Luckily, Sammy moved on.

“This is bad, Dean. I mean, angels are dicks, but they’ve always been so…stuck up. If they’re actually using monsters to do their dirty work for them, then that’s a whole different…I don’t even know what that is.”

Sam had trailed off, his frown troubled, remembering the same thing he was remembering. That gray douchebag in Geary; willing to make a deal with him, demon Knight of Hell that he was, in order to get to Crowley.

The SUV’s turn signal clicked on, bringing his attention back to the present. She was pulling off into the parking lot of a roadside diner. He glanced at his watch as he turned to follow. Maybe it was just bad luck. Maybe it was only coincidence. But the way their lives tended to run—he glanced over at Sam, at the silent things Sam was thinking. 

Yeah.

******

The small diner wasn’t very crowded, too early for the lunch rush, if there even was a lunch rush around these parts. He spotted Zee and Toby easily in the far corner booth, closest to the back exit. That figured. She had the wall at her back and a clear view of the floor and the entrance. Defensive maneuvers 101, lessons Dad had drilled into him from word go, in their first days on the road. She was watching them come in now, the coolness of her expression downright chilly. There would have been a blast of frost blowing them right back out the door if she could’ve had it her way.

Unfortunately, Sam was made of tougher stuff and woo-by caring shit. He let Sam get two steps ahead of him before he reluctantly moved, as if tugged along on an invisible tether. 

Sam picked the easier target to deal with.

“Hey Toby. Mind if we sit with you?”

Toby automatically scooted over to make room on the bench seat.

Sam sat.

Which left him standing and the ninja staring, pointedly, at all the other empty booths and tables.

Toby looked at both of them expectantly.

She was as stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery. She made room for him reluctantly, begrudging every inch of her space and her freedom. When he sat he blocked her exit, hemmed her in, and she did not like it one bit. He got it. No hunter got into bed (well, not bed here, exactly) with a demon willingly. It was something that had stuck in his craw every time he’d had to do it. But she was one stiff breeze from toppling over, a white knuckled grip on the mug of coffee in front of her like she could suck warmth and wakefulness out of it. The kid wasn’t in much better shape, but at least Toby looked like he’d gotten some shut-eye since the morning.

Slowly it dawned on him why she was driving all over hell and gone, aside from the obvious. It was the oldest trick in the book—cue up a soft rock station, down a straight stretch of highway doing 70, and Sam dropped off like a light, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the wheels turning on the road. No doubt it worked the same on the kid, chewing on his lower lip now as he tried to choose between a grilled cheese and a small hamburger. 

A plump waitress bustled up to their table with a coffee pot and two more menus. With a practiced flick of her wrist she topped off Zee’s coffee and handed them their menus. The few streaks of gray running through her hair didn’t dim the warmth of her smile. A well-washed tag on her uniform proclaimed her to be a Gertrude.

“What can I get you boys to drink?”

“Um, coffee, black, for me.” Sam answered quickly, probably still trying to shake the Easter egg bump on his noggin.

“Yeah, same.”

“Two coffees. I’ll give you folks a few more minutes?”

They nodded stiffly all around. Yeah, things weren’t awkward at all.

The diner menu was short and to the point. Sam turned it over, looking for more vegetables, but the back of the menu was blank.

“Here you go.” Gertrude was back with two brimming mugs of joe. She set those down in front of them and looked around expectantly. “Have we decided?”

For some reason she decided to start with him, staring at him expectantly with chocolate brown eyes, her pencil tapping rapidly on her pad. He thought about crying off, but Sam glared at him insistently from the other side of the table. He sighed.

“I’ll have the small hamburger, hold the fries.”

Gertrude’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. Maybe he looked like a fry type of guy. Who knew? With a bit of a sniff Gertrude turned to Zee.

“Just coffee’s fine for me, thanks.”

He felt totally gypped. If the ninja could sit there and just nurse her coffee, so could he. Coffee was bitter, mildly ashy, but at least still vaguely coffee-grounds-like. He could totally use a pass on forcing hamburger maggots down his throat. And really, between the two of them, she needed the food more. It made zero difference to his fighting form whether he ate or not, but if she continued to pick at food the way she had been doing, she wouldn’t be toppling over in a stiff breeze, she’d be blowing away.

Gertrude frowned at them, as if her inner-Mom suspected them of being on some weird Hollywood diet.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger with fries.” Toby piped up.

Well, at least someone was eating.

“And a milk.” He and Zee tacked on simultaneously.

He would swear Sam’s ears perked up when they did that. And Sammy smothered a _thing_ , glancing down at his menu to hide the pleased in his smile. On the upside, at least that lessened the ferocity of Gertrude’s glare, until Sam said, “Um, I’ll have the small salad, dressing on the side, please. Thanks.”

They _were_ on some weird Hollywood diet and they were going to be crappy tippers. Even though it was so not his fault that his ginormous giraffe of a brother somehow managed to live on a lettuce leaf and two carrots half the time, Dean looked around Gertrude’s round shadow towards the diner counter, where a three-tiered display of baked goods sat proudly.

“Is that pie?”

Gertrude beamed at him.

“Best pecan in the area.” She boasted proudly.

He smiled his best smile. Pie was one of those things he steadfastly refused to try ever since his … _change_. He didn’t want to know what flavor of rot his favorite thing on earth was going to turn into. So to Sam’s everlasting disappointment, he stuck to the basics. The things he knew the outcome of and could steel himself for: woody paper pancakes, maggoty burgers, watery beer, and coffee-grounds-y coffee.

Sam was looking at him a little too intently. He ignored Sam’s eager hopefulness and directed his attention to Toby.

“How about we get that pie to go for later, hmm, tiger?”

The kid’s eyes lit up before Toby could clamp down on the reaction. It was a hook, baited with the promise of pie and a later. Toby looked across the table to the bristly female porcupine sitting next to him, wanting permission.

He felt the spike of her irritation as clearly as a kick, but Toby was doing an admirable version of Sam’s puppy eyes at her. The outcome was inevitable. Frustrated but trapped, she nodded once.

Toby’s answering grin was like sunshine.

Gertrude’s pencil scratched merrily across her order pad and ended with a satisfied tap.

“Alrighty then. A hamburger, a cheeseburger with fries and one _small_ salad coming up. I’ll get that pie wrapped up for you boys to go.”

******

“Sam says Dean wants to stop.” Toby reported, looking up from his phone.

They were playing telephone, quite literally. She met Toby’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Ask him why.”

They were somewhere in the Appalachians, deep in the mountains, not quite high enough for snow, not quite low enough for spring, passing through one skimpily populated town after another. She could see nothing on either side of the road except trees and more trees. 

“Sam said Dean said ‘This is as good a place as any.’”

Again, with the cryptic. She wasn’t his brother. She couldn’t read his mind. As good a place as any for what? She looked at the road ahead again. It looked like a dumping ground for serial killers. 

“Ask him _for what_.”

Both Toby and Sam must have repeated her inflection perfectly, because when the answer came back, it was only one clipped word.

“Lessons.”

She glanced in the side mirror at the black Impala behind her, stuck to them like a thorny burr.

“Dean says there’s a turnoff up ahead.”

So there was.

She took a deep breath. She was sore and she ached all over and the chunk missing out of her side was…not right. Everything was not right. It took a phenomenal amount of bad luck to run into a ghost when you weren’t looking for one. It took a phenomenal amount of willful blindness to ignore the vibes the brothers were giving off, twitchy and uptight like they were sure something was on their collective tail.

She glanced in the rearview mirror. Toby was still holding the phone to his ear, curiosity lighting up his face, despite everything he’d been through. There were chances she would have taken if he wasn’t with her, but he was. His safety was her first priority.

She made the turn.

******

“C’mon Toby, give me a hand.”

Sam had a box of bottles and cans and a stack of cardboard in his arms. Without pausing to consult her Toby went off, trailing along behind Sam to the far edge of the clearing in the woods. 

Dean opened the trunk of the Impala. She was so out of it, and slow. He was reaching down to lift the false bottom when what _lessons_ meant finally dawned on her. Her hand shot out and locked around his wrist to stop him before she considered the wisdom of startling a demon.

He stopped and looked at her, green gaze level and intent.

“He should know at least the basics. Self-defense. But,” he paused. “Your call.”

She looked over at where Sam and Toby were setting the bottles up on stumps and logs.

“No way. For real?” Toby was asking, continuing the incomprehensible conversation he had started with Sam over lunch about baseball.

“Yeah.” Sam huffed a laugh. “Just like a knuckle ball. You know how to do those?”

The boy shook his head.

Sam looked around, choosing a golf ball sized rock off the ground. He took a couple dozen steps back from the can they’d just placed on a stump. With a windup and a throw, he knocked the can off the stump with a clean pitch.

“Huh. I didn’t know he’d learned how to do that.” Dean mused, mostly to himself.

Another huff of Sam’s laughter drifted to them when Toby tried and missed the can by a mile.

Dean looked back at her again, waiting. 

“Or we could just stay here, enjoy the afternoon, and have that pie.”

Pecan was Toby’s favorite.

She knew what sat underneath the innocuous looking gray felt in the Chevy’s trunk.

The job was over. They had no right.

She let go of his wrist and stepped back.

Dean said nothing as he pulled up the cover to reveal the weapons stash, rummaging around until he came up with a modified sawed-off shotgun that looked oddly small in his big hands.

“Rock salt cartridges first.” He caught her eye again. _Yeah?_

She nodded tightly. _Fine._

******

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him, how good Dean was with kids, but it always did anyway. When Ben and Lisa had been around, he stayed away from them unless immediate danger was nipping at their heels. And anyway, this was _Dean_. _Respectable_ was not the first word Sam would have chosen to describe his brother.

Dean’s head was bent over the ash blond halo of Toby’s newly cut hair, straightening Toby’s aim of the shotgun towards the cardboard target a few yards off. 

“Now see that? You want to look straight down there. And set your elbow like this. Got it?”

Toby frowned and gripped the shotgun more firmly. Dean settled a pair of worn orange shooting muffs over the kid’s head, almost too big for him. It had been too big on his head all those years ago, and too big on Dean’s head, and he was surprised Dean had kept it.

The shotgun boomed loud in the wintry air. Toby’s shot missed wide right, and the kid stumbled backward, unprepared for the kick of the gun. Zee shot up from the log she was sitting on, but before she could take a step, Dean was already there, bracing the kid by the shoulders.

“Okay. Here.” Dean got Toby steady and resettled the shotgun against Toby’s shoulder, guiding the kid’s elbow. “That wasn’t bad, but don’t scrunch your shoulders this time. Alright?”

Toby’s face puckered with concentration as he squinted down the sight again. Dean straightened out the kid’s shoulder with a gentle hand, and peered down the sight over Toby’s shoulder before stepping back.

“Okay, now remember to stick your feet. If you move, the gun’ll move. Got it?”

Toby darted an uncertain glance over his shoulder before planting his heels.

“Yeah. Good.” Dean nodded approvingly. “Let’s try that again.”

It was weird, watching these lessons from a bystander’s perspective, because he remembered them. He remembered Dean walking him through the same steps. Sam rubbed his hands together, whether to ward off the cold or the memory, he wasn’t sure. He walked over to where Zee was sitting, and her head turned slightly, automatically tracking his movements. He tried a smile, hoping to reassure her that she was among friends and not enemies.

“Dean’s watched over me doing this kind of thing since we were kids. He knows what he’s doing.”

She raised an eyebrow, because, yeah. He could see how ‘responsible Dean’ might be a hard sell.

The shotgun boomed again. Toby missed his second shot wide left, but this time held his ground with his feet. Dean frowned, kneeling down so he could sight over Toby’s shoulder, re-adjusted the kid’s grip and aim. He could see the grim determination in Dean’s face, and he got where it was coming from.

“He’s thinking of Ben.”

Sam stopped, because he’d promised Dean never to bring it up again. He stopped, because Dean paused, and he knew Dean was listening in with his abnormally enhanced hearing.

“Lisa and Ben—Dean stayed with them for a year. The year after I, uh, died.”

If he was expecting Zee to react, he was disappointed. It wouldn’t surprise him if it was a story she already knew—because their crowd made it their business to keep one ear to the ground, and _stay the hell out of Sam Winchester’s way_ would have made it all the way around the circuit in his soulless year.

“So, long story short, we were caught up in some stuff. Demons ended up taking Lisa and Ben hostage, as leverage, to try to get us to stop looking into the thing we were looking into. Lisa got possessed—and when Dean tried an exorcism, the demon stabbed her. Herself. Lisa. The wound was fatal if Dean finished the exorcism.”

He stopped again, because he’d never really understood how Dean could do it. 

“Dean…exorcised the demon. I was knocked out cold in another room. Lisa was bleeding to death. We still had to make it out of a warehouse full of demons.” He sighed. “It meant Ben had to man the shotgun and learn to shoot on the fly, because Dean was carrying Lisa. Close range, it wasn’t like he could miss, but…”

He’d only caught a glimpse of Ben’s face afterward, in the emergency room. Shattered trust, shattered faith, watching his mom nearly bite it, and the blame had to go somewhere, right? 

“We got to the hospital. They gave Lisa until morning. Ben was…we’d… “ Run out of options, run out of friends. Except not entirely. “Cas turned up. He fixed everything. And then,” Sam paused, because Cas hadn’t fixed _everything_. Maybe things eventually got scabbed over, but he didn’t know if things ever really got _fixed_. 

“Dean asked Cas to make Ben and Lisa forget him. A memory wipe to forget that they ever even knew him. So they could put their lives back on track. Get back to normal.”

Zee turned so suddenly he flinched back. She was focused on him intently as if he was suddenly a threat, her hand already deep into her jacket, her shoulder lowered and tensed.

“ _No._ ” She snapped sharply. “Don’t even _think_ about that.”

Sam kept perfectly still, aware that her hand was on the razor edged wakizashi in her jacket, and aware that Dean had turned toward them, drawn by the abruptness of her movement and the tension in the air. He took both hands slowly out of his pockets, palms open and up.

“No. That’s not what I meant. We won’t do that. Not to you. Not to Toby.” He said carefully.

Zee’s hand stayed in her jacket, her eyes fixed on his face. He didn’t move. He didn’t try to explain that Cas probably didn’t have the mojo left in him anyway. He kept his smile plastered on his face while his brain churned out a hundred questions. Hunters were a jumpy bunch as a rule, but this, this was something else. Like that anti-possession scar on her upper arm, the exact size and shape of a signet ring, burned right into her skin. He’d seen tats and charms of all sizes and shapes, but he’d never seen anything like that. It was hard to imagine what kind of thing she was caught up in that would have required measures that extreme.

Sam smiled harder.

Slowly Zee took her hand out of her jacket. She glanced over to where Dean was watching them, an indecipherable flicker crossing over her face before she turned back to look at him.

“Be sure. You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

Sam nodded carefully, filing the vehemence of her warning away in his head. He let his hands fall to his side, a silent— _all clear, I think—_ in answer’s to Dean’s unspoken— _what the hell was that?_

Toby set up again, drawing Zee’s attention back across the clearing. Toby’s third attempt was finally true, rock salt peppering holes all through the dead center of the cardboard target.

Toby turned and beamed up at Dean. And Dean grinned back, holding one hand up for a high five, only to pull it away at the last second so that Toby missed, and Toby laughed. It was the same stupid trick Dean used to pull on him, ages and ages ago, when Dean’s eyes had been bright with laughter and pride.

Like an outsider looking in, he stared at Dean’s grin and then at Toby, the kid’s face flushed bright with happiness and belonging, and swallowed a thing that was not a thing.

_Of course._

Of course.

Surreptitiously Sam chewed on his lower lip as he snuck a look sideways at the stone-faced hunter sitting next to him. In so many ways he couldn’t ask for a more perfect setup than this. She wasn’t defenseless, and the boy was all alone. And the two of them really did need help anyway.

A little more time with them wasn’t hurting anyone.


	32. Barricade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from song by The Outdoors.

“ _Elias._ ”

_The name whispered from her lips before she could swallow it. She was back at the sawmill, dusty wooden planks beneath her feet, her feet not quite touching them. Moving like a breeze she drifted her way across the room, her icy cold hands smoothing over an old maroon overcoat. It was freezing out. There was new snow dusting the windows and the forest floor, and when she found Elias again, he would need his favorite coat._

_A swirl of wind rattled the window panes, shaking her concentration, and the coat fell through her numb fingers to the floor. This wouldn’t do. She needed strength and substance and speed if she was going to retrieve her boy._

_She cast a cool glance at the whimpering figure huddled in a corner of the long room. Flesh, warm flesh, like the kind she used to have. She wanted it, the warmth and pliancy, the burning incandescence inside, the spark._

_She craved it._

_Without thinking about it she zapped her way across the room, blinking in and out of existence, a gift the angel had brought her. Her next meal let out a frightened shriek and blubbered inanely, something about please and don’t and made screams like music when her fangs punctured his jugular. Thick warm blood gushed over her tongue, strength and warmth and life, salted with shining motes of soul and it wasn’t enough. It still wasn’t enough._

_“Shh. Shhhh.”_

_She put one hand over the man’s mouth, to keep the sharp distress out of the gurgling noises he was making. She pulled the scarf away from the flesh on his neck, watching in fascination as his Adam’s apple bobbed with the cries in his voice, and hmm._

_Opening her jaws wide, she ripped the tasty morsel out._

There was no grace and no elegance to her fumbling as she rolled off the motel bed, her boots hitting the floor with a thunderously loud thump, one hand over her mouth, trying not to vomit right then and there. Cold tile hit her knees when she stumbled into the bathroom, bent over and hurled the foamy, acidic remnants of last night’s tomato soup into the toilet, and hurled again when her eyes told her it looked far too much like blood. When her stomach was done emptying itself, she let go of the toilet bowl and sank down on her calves, and bent over the tearing pain in her side, triggered by the vomiting. When the spasms eased at last, she slumped over, breathing shallowly, letting her palms fall flat and empty against the cold tile floor.

The smooth tile against both her hands jerked her upright. She felt around behind her, hand coming up empty from her holster. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed onto the edge of the vanity and pulled herself upright. Her knees shook, fragments of her nightmare clouding reality. She gripped the counter tighter, took one careful step and peered back into the semi-dark room.

Her dagger rested untouched on the nightstand. She was unarmed, vulnerable, but the nightstand might as well have been a million miles away. She forced a breath to calm herself, and took stock of the room. Toby was curled up in his bed, sound asleep for once, and the salt line by the door remained undisturbed.

It was quiet. 

She gripped the counter edge until her knuckles were white and forced a deeper, slower breath. _Inhale, hold, and slow, slow exhale,_ easing out the shakes and tremors and sharp jabby pulses of pain, trying to reorient her head. She was in a motel room, not back at the sawmill. The mirror showed her pale reflection, white lips and haunted eyes, hair still comfortably brown with no signs of blonde. There were the familiar calluses on the heels of her hands from her sword and the taste of squishy flesh between her teeth.

She spat violently into the sink, then ran some cold water so she could gargle, once with water then twice with mouthwash for good measure, trying to wash out the squeaky, tendon-y taste in her mouth, thin skin and meat and flesh and iron rich blood. She dry heaved again with the memory, and shut her eyes, right hand curling tight into a fist until her plain trimmed nails bit into her palm.

_It tasted like chicken._

_Raw chicken, a little bit of snap to the bite._

Desperately she opened her eyes and looked at the coffee maker sitting to one side of the vanity, under a cluttered mess of options, caff or decaf or tea, and she grabbed two coffees and a tea and threw them together into the filter, filling the carafe and hitting go. She needed caffeine, and she didn’t much care how she got it. She hung on to the first waft of brew, thin and weak, _but_ _not raw meat_ , and traced her fingers over the wad of bandages on her right side before lifting her shirt carefully.

There was the faintest hint of red showing through.

She didn’t move.

It was just blood. That’s all. It was a large gash, there being a hunk of missing flesh and all, and it would be unreasonable to expect the stitches to hold perfectly together when one was fighting ghosts and running from demons and moving around way more than the _strongly recommended in no uncertain terms stay still for ten days_ edict she’d been given.

Or there was something _wrong_.

She chewed on her lower lip. Technically, it wasn’t a zombie bite. The zombie queen had jabbed in with her fingers and tore off a chunk, but it wasn’t a bite. Technically, if it wasn’t a bite, then it wasn’t contagious. Probably. Sure, _Mother_ had eaten it, but it wasn’t a _bite_.

Was it?

******

It was a pain in the ass, the whole demon-not-sleeping thing. Sam had drifted off sometime after the Late Show, before the infomercials, and luckily for Dean, before the Dwayyo had come sniffing around. He nipped out without having to face The Inquisition, and ran the Dwayyo down in an alley two blocks out. It was a strange place for a Dwayyo to be—he thought they usually stuck to the woods. But when super-sized Wolverine charged him like an enraged bull, he wasn’t stopping to ask for ID. He was back in the room before Sam turned over, the First Blade behind his back, in case Sam woke up and literally smelled blood. He was cleaning the First Blade off in the bathroom when through the thin walls he heard Zee roll out of bed and hit the floor with an uncharacteristically loud thump.

He stopped mid-motion to listen.

Huh.

All hunters had nightmares. It came standard with the job description, like wheels on a car or wings on a plane, and both he and Sam had had their share. Sometimes you just woke up freaked out, not sure where you were. Some things were just that bad. It was probably nothing.

Then again, he’d been listening to them move around their room(s) for days. He’d gotten used to hearing certain patterns, certain sequences.

She’d left her dagger behind on the nightstand.

He frowned into the mirror. That was unusual, but it was none of his business. She was likely to bite his head off if he asked, so he was better off not asking. He turned back to cleaning off the Dwayyo blood, trying not to notice the way it disappeared into the crevices of the old jawbone, as if the Blade were drinking it up. He gave the old weapon a final wipe, one ear on the room next door, on her footsteps and the clumsy rattle of the coffee machine, followed by more, quieter footsteps, then by the distinctive rip of surgical tape being peeled off the roll and it really was none of his business.

******

She was still too shaky when she opened the room door for a breath of air. A bracing blast of cold hit her in the face, and she gulped it down, grateful for the arctic iciness of it. It’d been years since the dreams had been this bad, where the four walls of the room closed in on her, the space too small and cave-like and _small_ , filled with artificial light that could give way to darkness without warning, a darkness that would go on and on without the relief of daylight, and she _wasn’t thinking about that_.

A low growl of words cut through the dark from somewhere to her right.

“You look like Death hung over.”

Her hand froze on the doorknob. She turned to find Dean leaning casually against the hood of his car, an irascible look on his face, two cups of coffee in his hands again, one of them extended in her direction. The Java Joe logo was bright in the barely lit parking lot, and he crooked one eyebrow up, those eagle green eyes too sharp on the bloodlessly thin line of her lips. The promise of alertness wafted across to her—a Triple Red Eye was her guess—and she narrowed her eyes, because there were no Java Joe’s within 50 miles of here.

He cocked his head sideways, a deprecating, self-mocking gesture, reading the suspicions in her mind.

“The city never sleeps.”

The city was a long way away, but maybe not for teleporting. She looked at him and looked at the coffee, undecided. The memory of raw chicken squeaked over her tongue, and abruptly she crossed the few steps between them and plucked the coffee out of his hand, ignoring his bemused expression in favor of taking a healthy swallow and another and another, ignoring the fact it was still burning hot.

“Hey. Hey! Easy!”

She lowered the cup a fraction, then stuck her nose in the steam, needing to scrub out the scent and taste memory of squeaky raw flesh. The hot liquid warmed her cold fingers, and she focused on the earthy, wakeful aroma. She took another long, deep swallow, focused on that first real hit of caffeine that would clear her head. She was halfway through the coffee before she realize it was silent around her, or rather, that _he_ was silent, staring intently at her lips where they met the cup, the tip of his tongue parked between the part of his lips.

She inhaled sharply; struck by a sense memory so intense it seemed real. The way his mouth fit over hers, the slick and the slide of it, urgent and heated, like the half-remembered fragment of a dream. She took a hasty step back, unsure when she’d gotten so close, close enough to smell the clean scent of his aftershave cutting through warm coffee, close enough to bask in the heat radiating off of him like a furnace. 

_What the hell was she thinking?_ He was a _demon._

She took another cautious step back, her eyes never leaving his, all too aware that he hadn’t moved, his back still against the Impala. She was the one guilty of crowding his space, leaning in, by habit, as if his presence could ward off her nightmares. She had no idea why she even thought that; it had to be some weird holdover from the days at the hospital, when she’d been doped up and not in her right mind.

She jerked her nose back down to the coffee cup in her hands and inhaled more vigorously, trying to clear her head.

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. He looked around her into the motel room. His lips twitched down when he saw the thick line of salt just visible beyond the threshold. He took a tight and completely unnecessary breath, his features stern and harsh again as he nodded towards the room.

“Kid get any sleep?”

She studied the black plastic lid of her coffee cup. Toby had slept like a log—a deep, sound sleep for once. Who knew the answers to his nightmares lay in putting two coats of wax on the Impala? 

She bit her lips before looking at Dean again.

“Yeah. Thanks for that.”

There was a gleam in those green eyes, a reflection of the lights, perhaps.

“Detailing the car always wore Ben out too. Figured it’d work the same.”

The words were pulled from him like he didn’t want to let them out. Ben. Ben and Lisa, and the story Sam had told her. She dropped her eyes to hide her surprise that he would bring it up when it clearly scraped like a raw wound. Before she could say anything, he cleared his throat and tipped his cup in the direction of her freshly re-taped waist, all brisk business again.

“Are we going to have a problem with that?”

She paused with the coffee cup halfway to her lips, hearing what he didn’t explicitly say. Was she going to turn, pale and bloodless and ravenously hungry, starving for the taste of flesh?

“Shouldn’t.” He frowned at the caveat in her word. She clutched the coffee cup tighter. Maybe having that salt line there keeping him _out_ wasn’t the best thing for Toby’s protection. She flicked her thumb restlessly against the paper sleeve around the coffee cup, the rustling loud in the dark. “It wasn’t a bite. She tore off a chunk with her fingers.”

She mimed a tearing motion with one hand, bending her fingers like claws.

She stepped back again when he edged forward, green eyes intent on her face, as if he were trying to solve the problem by _seeing_ around the hex bag in her pocket, like he was trying to _sense_ if she was still human. After a minute he heaved a frustrated sigh, a constipated crease forming between his brows. He glared at her, annoyed, like everything, the angels, the ghosts, the zombies, was somehow all her fault, which it wasn’t. She was pretty sure. If anyone was to blame for all this hullabaloo, her money was on the demonic mother hen currently scowling at her.

Abruptly she peeled the lid off her coffee cup and drained it. She was going to need a helluva lot more java if she was going to be dealing with him, whatever the hell it was that he was. 

Dammit.

She snapped the lid back on the cup. She walked back into the room and broke the salt line with the toe of her boot before she turned to face him.

“I’m going to let him sleep in.” She made a shooing motion with her free hand. “You know where we are. Now go away. We’ll meet up with you guys at that Biggerson’s down the street around ten.”

******

It could’ve been a lie. She could’ve cut and run, but he took her at her word. One show of good faith for another; it was only fair. He had to drag Sam away from the motel by the hair, with Sam arguing with him every step of the way.

“Dean.” Sam said warningly, eyes narrowed and furious at him for being so stupid. “She’s going to bolt. God knows she’s been trying to. She doesn’t know about all the crap that’s been showing up at night. They’re going to be sitting ducks.”

He smiled at the hostess then gave Sam a speaking look when the blonde turned around, leading the way to a table in the middle of the room.

“She said they’d be here, Sam.”

His life was not made up of faith. When the hostess stopped at a four top, he looked around the room before putting on his most charming smile.

“Is that table free? See, this one, here, he’s got just a touch of claustrophobia. He likes a window seat.”

He pointed to a table by the window overlooking the street, and the motel down the street, ignoring the flustered outrage that predictably went across Sam’s face, and waited for Patti to nod before he dragged Sam with him to the table with a view.

“Thanks. We’ll take two coffees while we wait.”

By the time Patti had jotted all that down, Sam was almost done spluttering.

******

They were dawdling through the slowest breakfast ever, suffering growingly impatient looks from their waitress when there was finally activity down the street. He kept his eyes on the SUV when it pulled out of the motel’s parking lot, half expecting her to hang a hard right and vamoose on down the road. It had to be an even-odds toss up between Plan A: Run like Hell and Plan B: Hang Out with A Demon Just in Case You Might Turn into A Zombie. She had to have a better place to park the kid in case of this kind of emergency. So he was actually kind of surprised when the SUV pulled up next to the Impala and parked precisely between the white lines.

The bright greeting on Toby’s face when the kid saw them answered at least part of his questions for him. She wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize the fragile and temporary peace the kid had found, at least, not yet. Not until she could find a graceful exit.

It was lunacy. How were they going to get from here to there? He totally got it, but it was still nuts. He didn’t know what else to do when Toby turned to him, all bright eyed and bushy tailed.

“Will you show me how to throw a knife?”

He slid a look at Zee. _Where the hell did that come from?_

“Toby.” She said, quiet.

“Please?”

“Why do you want to learn to throw a knife, Toby?” Sam interjected, because Sam was good at making the third degree sound friendly when he wanted to.

“My dad could do it. And he could hit the bull’s eye on a dartboard every time. Dad said he’d teach me when I was older. I’m older now. Will you teach me?”

Well, shit. What were they going to do with that?

Zee put the menu into Toby’s hands. “Eat, then we’ll think about it.”

The kid’s glance around at their faces was astutely assessing. He sucked in his lips, strategically postponing his arguments, and looked down at the menu.

Zee glanced once at her menu and set it down, preoccupied and probably silently cussing. Learning how to fire a shotgun was one thing—brute force self-defense know-how that wouldn’t hurt. Learning to throw a dagger, on the other hand, was a finely honed skill.

A killing skill.

Dean pushed the eggs around on his plate. Why had he gone off and gotten eggs? Eggs, not surprisingly, were sulfur flavored in this incarnation of life, and he should have stuck with the pancakes. He would eat his hat (and it would taste about the same) if she did not know how to throw a dagger, very, very well. That dagger she had in her boot was weighted for it.

He met her troubled frown across the top of Toby’s head.

It was the first time the kid had brought up his Dad. SEAL, Sam had said. He’d seen the shape of the dog tags under Toby’s shirt, and the oval bump of something else on that standard issue ball chain.

Wait. Amulet?

What if that was the monster magnet?

He was about to poke Sam with the thought when he turned to find Sam staring at his hands, eyes wide as his fingers shook like someone had attached him to one of those belt machines that promised to vibrate you down to size 10.

“Sam?”

Sam shook his head, still staring blankly at his quivering fingers. _Not my doing_. Abruptly Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head and Sam’s whole body jerked, bumping the table and jiggling the cutlery.

“ _SAMMY??”_

Sam jerked spasmodically again, head and arms twitching like an out of control marionette.

“SAM!”

Dean was up and out of his chair in a flash, grabbing Sam’s wildly thrashing arms before Sam sent the table flying. Toby was staring at Sam frozen and wide-eyed, but the Ninja wasn’t made of ice for nothing. She moved decidedly to Sam’s other side, peeling back Sam’s eyes for a quick look.

“Is he epileptic?”

Dean shook his head. If he could take his hands off Sam and trust Sam not to hurt himself, he’d be looking for a hex, but Zee beat him to it, glancing at the grimness of his face and coming to the same conclusion he had. She grabbed Sam’s bag and dumped the contents out onto the floor. Sam gave another violent twitch, almost knocking over his water glass. A trickle of foam ran out from one corner of Sam’s mouth.

The hex had to be close. Somewhere on Sam, if not in his things. Dean reached inside Sam’s jacket, feeling along the pockets, and yanked his hand back when the angel blade burned against his skin. His breath hissed out and his vision went gray, and Zee paused mid-motion rifling through Sam’s bag to stare at him, him and his black eyes and he had to get himself under _control_. He clenched his fingers around the sizzling burn on his palm and took a deep breath, blinking once to get the world back to normal colors.

Zee went back to what she was doing, turning Sam’s bag inside out, feeling along the lining with a frown. She shook her head.

Nothing.

Sam’s whole body twisted, up in a tight arc of pain. The waitress and the hostess gathered around them, frowns on their faces when it seemed like he was doing nothing but frisking through Sam’s jacket to steal his wallet when he should have been calling 911.

“His medication.” He gritted out, by way of explanation. “I just have to find his, um, medication. For his, um, claustrophobia.”

They looked dubious, but he didn’t have time to care. He pulled Sam’s cell phone, the Impala’s keys, some crumpled up receipts and Sam’s other, other cell phone out of Sam’s pockets. Sam gave another spasm, his head rolling back at an uncomfortable angle, the drool of foam dribbling out one corner of his mouth getting worse.

“No no no no no. SAMMY. Stay with me. Come on. Sam. _Come on._ ”

Zee glanced up from where she was sorting through Sam’s things at his panicked patting down of Sam’s jeans and hissed at him under her breath.

“ _What the hell are you doing?”_

He would have thought it was obvious, checking around the dagger tucked into Sam’s right boot, looking for the hex.

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

” _What are you, a newbie? A hex has power. Bloody well_ FEEL _for it.”_

What did it look like he was doing?

” _Not_ THAT _way. The OTHER way. YOUR way.”_

Oh.

And it was right there, a dark pull in a gray world, pulsing in the pile of coins on the table from Sam’s left front pocket, looking like a penny but it wasn’t a penny. The taste of magic was bitterly strong once he thought to look for it, shimmering around the illusion of a penny like smoke at an Ozzy concert. He fished it out of the pile and looked at the markings on it. A triskelion, made of serpents. Now where did he know that from? He’d seen it once before, only not in the dusky brown of oxidized copper, but bright and gleaming, emblazoned on a wooden chest, in a different kind of metal…

_Shit._

He turned the fake penny flat and drew the sharp edge of the table knife against it, coming away with a smear of gold. _Crap._ He should have remembered. The lake was nearby. He should have taken care of it when he was out last night. They couldn’t finish the job before, but he’d bet he could do it now. He pinched the gold coin between his fingers tight, holding it as far from Sam as possible and caught Zee’s eye.

_Look after him for a minute?_

She nodded.

He rolled the coin/hex into his fist, feeling the waves of hoodoo venom in it pulse against his skin.

“I’ll be right back.”


	33. Fight Fire with Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Kansas.

“What happened? Where’s Dean?”

The questions came in rapid succession as Sam sat up. Sam was scanning the restaurant with sharp eyes as he spoke, wiping the foam from the corner of his lips with a careless hand. There was nothing puppy like about him now, and this, this was the _other_ Sam Winchester she had heard about. 

She looked down at the dull table knife in her hand, a fine trace of gold gleaming along the cutting edge.

“Hex.” She replied shortly. She glanced at the people still staring at them and lowered her voice. “You boys piss off any dragons or Trow goblins lately?”

Sam’s head tilted to one side. He hesitated.

“Uh. Maybe.”

“ _Uh, maybe,_ which? _Dragons or goblins?_ ”

“Both?”

She stared at him, because _both?_ Trow goblins were rare, at least outside Orkney, and dragons rarer yet.

“The dragons were a while ago, though.” Sam said, mostly to himself, looking around again, but more like he was Google mapping their location in his mind than actually looking around. “The lake…”

“What about the lake?”

Sam brought himself back to the present, and glanced at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “We sort of sank the goblin’s gold hoard to the bottom of Lake Erie. It seemed like a good distraction at the time.”

She resisted rubbing at the headache forming behind her eyes as she looked at Sam, all six foot four of him whom should have known better.

“Did you _want_ to make an enemy for life?”

Sam tilted his head again, this time helplessly, gathering up his gear and counting out bills from his wallet.

“He had something we really needed.” And it was Friendly Sam that smiled apologetically at the waitress across the room, dropping an extra twenty on the table. But the naked command that came next sounded just like his brother. “Come on. Let’s go. Let’s get you guys back to the motel. We’ll be more secure there.”

******

They were marginally more secure at the motel. Four walls they could see, but they stayed blank walls because it was impossible to ward against goblins. The Trows were nasty buggers—vicious, greedy, steeped in sorcery and damned near impossible to kill. To top that off, they had a long memory, all too happy to nurse a grudge like it was a precious hobby. Even the most ambitious of the Families left Trow gold well alone for a reason.

Sam’s long legs chewed up the room, pacing from one side to the other, glancing periodically at his watch.

“It’s been too long. I’m going after him.”

It had been a whole forty minutes since Dean had left, barely enough time to drive to the next town and back, but Sam was right. It had been too long. She stood up from the small table where she had been sitting, trying to ignore Sam’s anxious pacing, and picked up her weapons.

Sam stopped in the middle of fishing the keys out of his pocket.

“You’re not coming.”

Pigheadedness ran in the family. She threw him an impatient glance as she slipped her swords into the sling she used to carry them around when in public. It went over one shoulder, like a yoga mat or poster tube, odd, but innocuous looking. Toby was shrugging into his own jacket.

“No.” Sam said. “It’s too dangerous. I’ll just go find Dean. Please, just wait for us here.”

She gave him a flat look. “Any situation your brother can’t get himself out of, you’re going to need help.”

Some thought darker than the others went across Sam’s face.

She’d considered that possibility too, but the required action was the same. They were wasting time.

“Do you know exactly where he is?”

Sam’s hand went distractedly to his phone before he jerked the telltale motion away.

“Well, come on, then. We’re burning daylight.”

******

They made the drive in silence. The interior of the Impala smelled unexpectedly like new leather, lovingly kept up, and buttery soft. Toby leaned forward from where he sat in the back. She turned her head towards him.

“When we get there, stay in the car.”

He looked at her mutely, a stubborn set to his chin.

“Toby.”

They’d been over this. There was one rule if he was going to tag along on the job, and that was to follow orders. They couldn’t have left him alone in the motel room, and so here they were, a grim circus of characters, the frown on Sam’s face getting deeper by the minute as he stomped on the accelerator. Toby clung to the back of the front seat with both hands, lips cinching in before he stated unequivocally.

“I want to help.”

“No.” She back-ended the flat denial with a glare, putting her foot down. “You stay put. Out of the way. That’s how you’ll help.”

Toby’s face puckered, a pout with determination underlying it, before he let go of the front seat and sat back, feet swinging in the air, a silent mutiny stewing.

“What if Dean’s in trouble?”

She exchanged a glance with Sam. Toby’s attachment to Dean went deeper than she thought, deeper than she wanted. If there _was_ trouble, it would end badly. So maybe she should have just let Sam go off by himself, come whatever tragic ending may come, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Maybe she owed them for helping Toby. Maybe she owed them for sticking it out at the hospital. Whatever the reason, they were here now.

The wind kicked up around them. Thunderclouds loomed ahead, black shadows on the horizon lit by jagged flashes of lightening. They could just make out the curve of the shoreline, and the vague shape of a long wooden pier jutting out over turbulent waters. She turned fully around to face Toby as Sam pulled the Impala to a stop.

“Stay. And that’s an order. Stay, or you’re not coming with us next time.”

There was a long obstinate silence before Toby finally nodded.

******

It seemed the moment they stepped out of the car the heavens opened up with a deluge. Rain sleeked down the sides of the Impala, a pounding drumbeat of water, while the wind whipped her hair into her face.

“ _DO YOU SEE HIM_?” She shouted over the din of the rainfall at Sam, a vague dark shape on the other side of the Chevy. “ _CAN YOU SEE_ ANYTHING _?”_

A bolt of lightening danced down from the skies, touching on the water, making everything white bright for a moment. There were two shadowy figures at the end of the pier, and

She peered harder. Sam rounded the car to come up alongside her, peering where she was looking through the murk, his Beretta tucked under his soaked jacket. Another flash of lightening lit the lake again, a glint of something red and gold and green, and her jaw dropped before she could help it.

“ _Is that_?”

The expression on Sam’s face could only be described as awe. Awe, and maybe enchantment. Over the crash of thunder and between the sheeting beat of the rain, came a faint strain of music. A woman’s voice, high soprano, crooning…

_Metallica?_

She jabbed Sam sharply in the ribs, motioning frantically at him to cover his ears. She was putting her hands over her own ears to block out the music, the elements pounding to the now recognizable melody of _Enter Sandman_ as the ethereal voice singing it rose high over the waves lapping at the seawall.

It was a mermaid.

A bloody, sodding mermaid. In a lake, where mermaids were not supposed to be.

These things didn’t happen.

Mermaids did not sing _Metallica._

Except this one did. The wind and the rain were her guitars, the thunder and the lightening her drums. Another burst of lightening flashed across the end of the pier like a spotlight, and there was Dean Winchester sitting with his legs dangling off the end of the pier, a goofy smile on his face as he listened, completely enraptured by the red-headed, scantily clad, green-and-gold-scaled, fish girl rocking it out in a foaming whirlpool of water.

Oh…for the love of _turnips_.

Of all the dire scenarios she had envisioned in the last half hour, _this_ was not one of them.

Sam half turned, and was shouting at her. She couldn’t hear, obviously, but he stopped, and mouthed the words exaggeratedly.

“METALLICA. CALMS. DEAN. DOWN.” Sam yelled. “I. DON’T. THINK. IT’LL. AFFECT. ME. --US.”

Uh-huh.

She took a tentative finger out of one ear, testing Sam’s theory, ready to stomp on Sam’s foot if he started smiling stupidly again. As she did that, something brushed by her, mindlessly heading down towards the pier.

Not something. Someone.

Her hand snaked out just in time to grab the back of Toby’s jacket. She reeled Toby in and turned him around to face her, and she probably shouldn’t have been surprised by his glazed eyes and zoned-out face, because _of course_ this had to happen.

She clamped her hands over his ears.

It took a second before Toby blinked, the spell broken. Toby looked at her, at the puddle of water he was standing in, his eyes wide with confusion about how he got where he was. 

A pair of orange earmuffs bumped her hand. She recognized them from yesterday’s shotgun practice; Sam handing them to her with a gesture towards Toby. She took them and tucked them over Toby’s ears securely.

“CAR!” She mouthed. “STAY!”

Toby shot her an apologetic look. It wasn’t his fault, and that would have been fine, except she turned back to Sam, to find the faintest smile tugging at the corner of Sam’s lips, an almost pleased smile that vanished when she looked at him, and she narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t funny. But before she could say anything, Sam shifted his attention down the pier, peering through the murk at his blissed-out brother. It must have been a trick of the lightening dancing across the lake surface that made Dean looked younger, almost boyish, belting out the chorus at the top of his voice, banging invisible drumsticks at the air.

She put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and he leaned down, but she still had to stand on her tiptoes to shout near Sam’s ear.

“ANY IDEAS ON HOW WE FREE FLUFFY DOWN THERE?”

One corner of Sam’s lips quirked up again before he caught himself. He turned his head toward her ear before he yelled back.

“I READ ABOUT THEM! I THOUGHT THEY USUALLY STUCK TO THE OCEAN!!?”

They did. The lore on sea sirens was that they haunted the ocean’s rocky outcrops, not so much pining for princes as watching the horizon for ships to sink and sailors to nibble on. The elements did their bidding, and you did not mess with a sea siren near a large body of water if you could help it. She stared harder at the crooning Ariel—it was hard not to—watching the mesmerizing sway and dance of mersong as the redhead’s voice softened seductively. Despite the howling wind and rain, girlfriend was only strategically clad. Seashells were woven into her auburn tresses, seashell bracelets on her arms like a reminder of the ocean. Seashells over her, er, assets. The only thing that was out of place in the mermaid’s beach bunny attire was a discordant gleam of metal around the ginger’s neck.

“That leather choker.” Sam said almost at the same time. “That medallion on it. It’s gold.”

Goblin gold. She took a step forward, trying to see through the rain more clearly.

“Is that etching on it?”

Sam came up beside her and nodded. 

“You’re thinking spell?”

“It’d be one way to get a treasure hoard off the bottom of a lake.”

“Your goblin enslaved a mermaid?”

“Looks like it.”

She glanced up at Sam when he said that. The set of Sam’s jaw, exactly like his brother’s, locked in over-protective-alpha-male mode. Over a mermaid. She looked heavenward, and reached for patience.

“You realize you’re nothing but a tasty snack to her, right?”

A series of expressions flickered across Sam’s face, settling on stubborn. “She’s not doing this by choice.”

Uh-huh. Still, Sam had a point. Given the opportunity, Disney princess there should head for salt water the moment she was freed, which would solve at least one of their problems. Freeing the mermaid meant getting that choker off her neck—without cutting her—because that would really tick the mermaid off, and they did not want to tick the weather-controlling mermaid off. Zee measured the distance between the edge of the pier and the fishy redhead with a frown. It was too far for her to reach, even if she weren’t hampered by the bandage corset around her waist. What they needed was someone tall; someone with adequately long arms.

She glanced up at the towering giraffe next to her, and scowled. She slid the sling with her swords forward, and undid the clip. She pulled out her katana, gripping the hilt before releasing it reluctantly.

“Don’t nick her. And do not drop my sword.”

Sam hesitated before he accepted the katana from her two-handed, handling the weapon with a degree of reverence she wouldn’t have expected. She felt a little better parting with her sword for that, but it was hard anyway. She slid the shorter wakizashi out into her hand next.

“Be careful. That goblin’s still got to be around here somewhere.”

******

The wooden pier was slippery beneath her boots. She fell into step besides Sam, her back to him as much as she ever had her back to anyone, one eye on Toby, his faced pressed up against the Impala’s foggy windows, the huge orange rounds of the earmuffs protruding awkwardly over his ears. Her boots squelched through a slick of lake, waves splashing over the planks as the wind shrieked against the seawall. Lightening cracked across the sky, touching down on the water near them, and Sam hastily lowered the steel blade in his hand down to his side.

Just around them the rain eased. The downpour turned into little puffs of drizzly mist that kissed her cheeks, and the thunder faded into a distant rumble. She turned her head around to see the sea witch staring at them, at Sam, specifically, and at the sword in Sam’s right hand. The music shifted, the drumbeats stretching and deepening, slow and rhythmic. Sam’s right arm started to droop, the point of her katana lowering. She could just barely make out the words drifting to them like a caress on the wind.

_I want to know..what loving is..I want you..to shooooww me…_

She trod on Sam’s foot, on principle alone.

Sam’s head snapped up. _She_ would have tightened her grip on the katana, but Sam eased up instead, holding her sword with an almost negligent looseness. _What the…?_ Sam caught Ariel’s brilliantly emerald gaze and held it with his big sad eyes, artfully resembling a golden retriever begging for dinner. He held his left hand palm up and peacefully open— _we’re not here to hurt you, we’re here to help_ , _we’re not the droids you’re looking for—_ Sam’s Obi Wan act, and _she_ wouldn’t have believe him, but she wasn’t a Disney princess. The wind puffed softly once and died, the thunder crashed back into _Some Kind of Monster_ , full on jammin’ Metallica, and the rain beat down everywhere except in their way.

Well, damn. Who knew?

The plank beneath her feet rattled. An angry clatter came from their left, and one of the pier posts shook. A short round blur levered itself up from under the dock, a turtle like shape barreling towards them with a heavy iron pike. The Trow charged in at Sam, the pike lowered and leveled like a battering ram. She shoved Sam out of the way.

“Go!”

The pike clanged against her sword, the impact vibrating down her arm. Rain and wind cleared a little space around them, and the goblin’s brows lowered furiously at the mermaid’s subtle betrayal. Cracked green lips muttered something, a chant, an imprecation, and the music squeaked up to an alarmingly sharp E, pain vibrating in it as the mermaid flinched, one hand going to the tightening choker around her neck. Zee ducked again as the goblin swung his pike back at her head, moving rapidly out of arm’s reach as the Trow raised the mace in his other hand. Her wakizashi was still too short to counter the goblin’s pike and mace combination, even if for once in her life, she had the height advantage. She feinted, dodging a swing of the mace from the enraged mutant Ninja Turtle, looking for any opening in between the plates of the Trow’s heavy armour.

The Trow’s gleaming red eyes looked past her, at Sam’s unprotected back. The goblin lowered it’s pike like a lance and tucked its head deep into its armour.

_Shit._

She stepped directly into the Trow’s path, wishing like hell she had Sam’s size and mass. She adjusted her grip on her wakizashi to a backhanded grip. It scraped with a hideous screech along the pike as the goblin charged forward. She spun and blocked, throwing her full weight low against the Trow’s squat frame, sending them both skidding to the dock’s edge. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam balance precariously with one foot on the edge of the pier, drawing her sword with one smooth motion, the tip of it just reaching far enough to delicately slice through the mermaid’s ensorcelled choker without drawing a single drop of blood.

The sea siren spun around towards the goblin the moment her choker splashed into the water. Zee almost jumped out of her skin when words sounded directly in her mind, liquid and melodious.

_Cover your ears._

She dropped her blade on the pier and stuck her fingers in her ears, turning and flattening herself on the pier as the mace whirled over her head. She could just hear the lower edge of the mermaid’s shrill high C as the goblin’s head blew apart with it, splattering her with blood and brain and gloop.

******

The sun was breaking through the clouds when he woke up, and Sam was kissing a mermaid.

Sam was kissing a mermaid.

“Her name’s Theodora.” Sam informed them primly, as if waking up to find your brother making out with Ginger Splash was a perfectly normal, everyday thing. And he wasn’t going to ask why Sam was handing Zee her long samurai sword back, dripping wet with lake water, that apparently— _Theodora_ —had retrieved for him.

“She was grateful.” Sam added, his eyes wistfully following the silvery wake streaking north across the water.

That gave whole new levels of meaning to the lore, and why Sam spent so much time “studying” mermaid “tales”, but he wasn’t going to say any of that out loud, not with Zee’s eyebrows making an impressively high arch, looking at Sam like Sam might be some throwback version of James T. Kirk, green alien women and all.

“Dean!”

He wasn’t ready when Toby banged into him, two arms around him for a split second before Toby pulled back, their orange shooting muffs clanking awkwardly around the kid’s neck. Toby looked up at him, bright blue eyes filled with concern, concern for him, which was absurd in the extreme, except Toby actually said, “Are you okay?”

He cleared his throat, because it had gotten scratchy in the rain.

“Yeah, tiger. Yeah. I’m good. We’re all good.”

“Was that really a mermaid?”

He turned his head in Sam’s direction, because it was always best to defer to the experts. Besides, it was fun watching Sam turn red.

“Sam? Mermaids?”

Sam made a series of coughing, vaguely choking noises.

The rain must have really gotten Sam good.

******

Toby was still firing questions at Sam when they got back to the Impala. Mermaids and goblins and dragons and no, as far as they knew, the tooth fairy was dead, because, well, Garth. Sam winced when he said that, and he was kind of surprised Sam still remembered. It hadn’t been a quarter every time—he did the best he could—and it was a good thing Sam had been a sound sleeper, back then.

He popped the Impala’s trunk and rummaged around until he found Sam’s extra jacket and tossed it at him.

“Don’t drip on my upholstery.”

He looked around. One car. No Durango.

His eyes wanted to stray. Sam looked like a waterlogged rat. No wet T-shirt winner there. _She_ was wearing a leather jacket, water beading up on the front and traveling a path down to clingy soaked denim, not that he had been looking or anything…she had to be freezing. He put his hand on one of his jackets blindly, and threw it in her direction without looking.

“You too.”

It took effort to keep his nose buried in the trunk, rearranging weapons that weren’t arranged to begin with. He wasn’t paying any attention to the sound of leather shucking or the rustle of his jacket, and he wasn’t looking up to see the way she tucked her nose into his jacket collar, almost as if she was inhaling his scent curiously. His jacket was too big on her, of course, hanging halfway to her knees the way one of his shirts would if he’d…

He closed the trunk lid with a thud.

“What was the mermaid singing?” Toby asked as he clambered into the back seat.

To Sam’s inevitable eye-roll, he answered, “The classics, kid. Only the best thing ever.”

He cranked the heat on high, waiting for them to get settled in. He reached around, grabbing the shoebox from the backseat where he kept it. Sam’s eyes would be looking at the back of the car now if his skull weren’t in the way. He ignored Sam, rummaging one-handed through the tapes before finding the one he wanted. Toby leaned forward, putting his chin on the seat back to get a better look at what he was doing. From the expression on the kid’s face, you would think he had never seen a cassette before. He ignored Sam’s silent, _Dude._ Cassettes _. He’s eight. What’d you think?_

The thudding strings from _Of Wolf and Man_ filled the car.

Sam reached over and turned it down a notch.

Spoilsport.

******

Out of nowhere Dean got another bug up his butt about the condition of his precious Baby. And so when they came across the car wash they had to stop, and washing apparently wasn’t enough, because the Impala needed two more fresh coats of wax, like, right now. It gave him the chance to flip through the headlines on his laptop, only half listening to the tunes coming from where Dean was showing Toby the finer points of detailing. 

He was taking another sip of his coffee, idly glancing over to check on Dean and Toby’s progress, when Zee pulled up a chair next to him and sat down.

“What’s going on?”

She kept her voice low to avoid carrying to Dean’s sharp ears, and she had some cover, because Zepplin’s _Misty Mountain Hop_ was blaring from the stereo set on its usual 11. Sam kept the cup to his lips a second longer, then took a second sip, stalling, because he knew what she was asking, and it wasn’t about his coffee drinking or what he was looking at on the computer.

“There was a rugaru last night.” He held up a hand when she started to get up. “Dean took care of it.”

While he’d been asleep. _Typical_. Setting that problem aside, he went on.

“The amulet Toby has on that chain with his dad’s dog tags, have you seen it?”

She cast him a sharp glance.

“There’ve been more?”

“Yeah. A couple ghouls the night of the ghost. A rawhead the night before last.”

She wasn’t slow. He watched her consider the problem, the possibilities flickering through her eyes, and she glanced at Toby with a frown. He schooled his face carefully to neutral when she looked back at him, gesturing for something to draw with. He handed her his notepad and a pencil from his bag. With a few quick strokes, she sketched Toby’s amulet for him.

“It’s just an abstract shape. Metal. Gold toned, but not gold. I don’t remember any markings or symbols. It didn’t seem remarkable.”

He studied the drawing in his hand. It looked innocuous enough, but something was drawing monsters to them. Maybe _Mother_ zombie did just simply mistake Toby for her son Elias, or maybe there was something else. He pocketed the sketch.

“I’ll look this up.”

She stared hard at him, because her instincts said, correctly, that there was more. 

Toby’s laughter pealed out from where Dean had hoisted him so he could reach a spot on the top of the Impala. Sam kept himself from turning to look, even when he heard Dean chuckle, and strained to keep his poker face on under Zee’s keen scrutiny. Toby laughed again, and Zee turned to look. Sam breathed like a bug freed from the microscope, and sucked that breath right back in when she glanced his way again.

“Angels?” Zee asked.

That he honestly did not know, and he said so.

“It’d be a first for them, but …”

The Fallen had fallen with Lucifer. Walked the earth millennia ago, and mingled with men. Who was to say they hadn’t mingled with monsters as well? And then it wasn’t that much of a stretch that the angels, the Fallen, were working with monsters, because there were a godawful lot of monsters dogging their steps, like someone was a monster magnet. Someone, or something.

He tilted his head uncertainly.

“Maybe. We’re not sure.”

Zee watched him, still studying him far too carefully. He cleared his throat.

“If it’s not…”

He left it at that. Zee stayed quiet as well, what they were both thinking left unsaid. The three of them had more experience than normal with the supernatural and how it worked. Whatever was tracking them, however it was happening…if it wasn’t her, if it wasn’t angels looking for Dean, if it wasn’t Toby’s amulet, then it left one thing.

Toby.


	34. Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Fall Out Boy.

“ _Are you KIDDING ME?_ ”

She grabbed Toby’s hand and pulled him along at a full run, and her complaint was a yelp. It was undignified. In her whole entire life, she had never yelped. But they were being chased by a freakin’ sasquatch.

It wasn’t Sam.

It was a full head taller than Sam. It was a she. She was very interested in Sam, actually. Now that Zee thought about it, there seemed to be a theme there. Who was the monster magnet now? Anyhow, they were running through the woods, with Sam at the head of the line, away from an overly amorous Sasquatch in full pursuit of her desired mate.

She had a stitch in her side from the running. This forest path had been Sam’s idea. A compromise, to keep Toby’s mind off his knife throwing obsession. Sam had pointed out, reasonably, as only Sam could do, that if Toby wanted to get within throwing distance of anything, he had to learn to sneak first. They had stopped at a deserted campground high in the Monongahela, closed for the winter.

It was peaceful. Quiet.

Sasquatch were a myth.

Toby slowed down a little, panting.

Dean swept by at a full lope, solving the problem by simply picking Toby up without breaking stride, carrying the boy as if he weighed nothing.

“Better hurry up, sweetheart. Gigantor’s mate’s closing on you.”

The creature behind them made a kind of cooing howl. It wasn’t exactly a come-hither, but one got the idea.

Sam ran even faster, peeling off to the left and taking his new girlfriend with him.

“I TOLD YOU TO GET A HAIRCUT!” Dean yelled after his fleeing brother as he came to a halt.

It was utter chaos. She stopped to catch her breath.

“Is he going to be alright?”

Dean looked in the direction Sam went.

“Yeah. He’ll circle around back to the cars in a sec. We should get there.” He set Toby down, eyes brimming with mirth. “He runs a couple miles a day, so it shouldn’t be a problem for him to lose her.”

******

Sam was a little out of breath when he slammed into the car, all limbs and panic, closing the door rapidly behind him.

“GO! GO! GO!”

Dean obligingly put on the gas as he watched the SUV do the same, pulling out of the empty parking lot with a synchronized squeal of tires. It was really difficult to keep his facial muscles from twitching up into a smirk as Sam turned to him, still red in the face from running. Sammy glared at him, his hair flopping around every which way. Sam puffed out his cheeks, and puffed again, raising one finger prohibitively and enunciating clearly for emphasis, as if that was going to stop him.

“NOT. ONE. WORD. NOT ONE.”

Dean’s lips quirked. He might have made a sound.

Sam rounded on him in his seat, all flustered and fierce, the one finger pointing threateningly.

Dean tried to swallow the thing that was a laugh. He was having trouble. He shouldn’t tease.

For now.

******

They picked up the northern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia, snow dusted ridge tops stretching wave after wave to the horizon like an earthen ocean. Dean kept his eyes on the road, on the Durango in front of him, winding their way through the last of the high thaw.

He knew what Sam was doing. And he wanted to tell him it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t just take the girl and the kid and shove them down his throat, willy nilly, like they were a replacement for Lisa and Ben. It didn’t work that way. 

He could read Sam like a book. Like back the time when Sam had made him promise to go find Lisa _after_ , all those ideas Sam had in his head about what was _good_ for him. Trying to save him. Trying to give him what Sam thought he wanted. 

Well, it wasn’t this.

Every day the kid was around them was a day he learned more about the life he knew too much about already. Every day was an added chance things would go south, sour the whole deal, because shit _always_ happened. You just tried your damnedest not to be under the fan when it went sailing.

Sam wanted the truth. Well, the truth was the life sucked, even when he thought Dad was a superhero out saving the world. The truth was crappy motel rooms and trying to decide if you would rather have clean clothes or the Snickers bar in the vending machine. The truth was the days at Pastor Jim’s and Bobby’s never lasted long enough, that he had wanted to stay, set down the burden of being responsible for just a few more days. But he’d always manned up, because he knew Dad needed him. Needed to hear that it was okay to keep doing what he was doing, that Dean had got it, picked up the loose pieces he left behind. Because what he saw in Dad’s eyes—pride and regret, deluding himself into thinking he could count on a nine year old to handle things, the driving need to protect his sons from the thing that had killed his wife, the bare edge of panic hidden beneath it all; the fear of losing them too, lacing through everything Dad had done.

He got that now.

He’d tried, as best he could, to even things out for Sam. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and tracking chocolate Easter Bunny leavings in the woods, that one Christmas he tried to sell Sam that an air freshener tree was as good as a real one. And _this_ , all this was Sam’s way of trying to give it back. That year he’d had with Lisa and Ben, backyard barbeques and movie nights, the normal that Sam saw through the windows of other people’s lives—Thanksgiving dinners and birthday picnics, Sam’s hoping against hope it’d be enough to save him.

He skewed a glance at Sam, sitting next to him gazing out the window over the smoky blue haze above the mountains. He turned away, staring at the taillights of the Durango in front of him. He didn’t want the kid in the SUV ahead to know any more than he already did, and as for the rest of what he wanted, it didn’t matter, it had never mattered. He needed to get it through Sam’s hard head that this was just a job until they could figure out what was tossing monsters their way night after night. But he couldn’t open his mouth, because he knew where Sam would run with it. Just saying something meant there was something he was denying, when there was nothing.

Nothing at all.


	35. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Imagine Dragons.

She was standing at the window looking out like the answers to life were in the backyard. He came up behind her; brushed the thick fall of her hair gently to one side, revealing the bare curve of her neck. He placed a kiss just there, smiling to himself at her surprised intake of breath. Her head tilted back against his shoulder, exposing the long line of her throat. He whispered his lips up to the sensitive spot just below her ear. Her breath hitched as her eyes drifted closed, leaning slightly against him. He slid one arm around her waist, drawing her closer, sweet heat building in the pit of his stomach.

“This isn’t real.” Her voice was sultry-husky, muttering half to herself and only accidentally out loud, but then she repeated more firmly, “This isn’t real.”

She straightened, pulling determinedly away from him, the chill of cold air all along where she had been, turning in the circle of his arms, and placed her hands flat on his chest.

It seemed pretty real to him.

She licked her lips, distracting and delicious, and he leaned forward, slanting his head, wanting just a taste. She followed his movements as if mesmerized, wetting her lips unconsciously again, her fingers splaying over his shirt. She drew a breath through barely parted lips, and he focused, focused on the anticipation, that first touch of lips, slick and electric, when she bit down on hers hard and pushed back from him with a resolute step.

“Dean.”

Hmm?

He didn’t know if he made that distracted hum out loud, his mind still on other things.

“Dean!”

Yeah?

His eyes were still on the sweet curve of her lips.

“DEAN! Snap out of it. I’m not Lisa.”

Well, duh. He could _see_ that.

“This isn’t real!”

She kept saying that like it meant something. His hand was still around her waist, careful of the stitches and the layer of bandages on her right. She felt delicate and supple in his arms, and oh, this was going to be so good, so good he could taste it now, feel it as a tingle coursing in his veins, a hot tension winding him up. Why on earth would she think he would mistake her for Lisa? They were nothing alike. He eased forward, trying to close the air gap between them, to bask in that deliciously heady warmth again. Her hands holding him back gave a little, weakening, before firming resolutely and keeping him where he was.

“Come on, Dean. Look at me. Look for real. I’m not Lisa. Wake up.”

He was looking. He was looking into those whiskey eyes, the softness of her lips, the familiar couch behind her that would be …

HOLY SHIT

He released her and jumped back like she was a hot poker, bumping into the end table behind him that he should have remembered was there. He stepped backwards again, only backwards and two automatic steps to the right, avoiding the easy chair he knew was behind him, next to _that_ end table, next to _that_ couch, his eyes scanning the room rapidly, looking at the familiar large screen TV and bookshelves, the pictures on the mantelpiece, Ben’s trophies next to them, the collection of DVDs Lisa had given him for Christmas. Things he remembered packing away in boxes when they moved, stripping the walls clean, leaving the room bare and empty.

“ _What the_ _hell_? WHERE are we?” He hissed. “ _What_ are you?”

Zee’s glance was sharp at his question and his tone. _Are we back to that?_ She gave Lisa’s living room a quick, cursory glance and moved to the front window, peeking out between the slats of the blinds.

“In _your_ dream, idiot.”

Her voice was curt as she looked down the street. There would be nothing but lawns and white picket fences out there, at least until he moved in.

Wait a minute.

“My _dream_?”

She turned away from the window to face him, her eyes snapping.

“Well, it certainly isn’t _mine_.”

He gave her a hard stare.

“How am I dreaming? I don’t sleep.” He said flatly.

“No shit, genius. Hence the problem.”

“How are you in my dream?” He was biting off the questions rapid fire, not liking the fact she was in his head. He didn’t want her in his head. Of all the places he wanted her, in his head was not one of them.

She moved to the next window and looked carefully out again, her steps swift and efficient. Hunting.

“Dream root.” She replied shortly. “Sam wanted to come, but.” Her lips tightened, “We weren’t sure who or what was doing this to you. Someone needed to keep watch, out there, in the real world. And since I’m banged up and he’s not—“ she made a gesture of frustration at her patched-up side, “I drew the short straw.”

He could see how that decision had gone down. He didn’t care. He’d rather have Sam. What was Sam thinking, letting strangers into his head? Letting _her_ into his head?

She crossed the room to the next window and peered out again, surveying the terrain that was his life, like she was working a case, cataloging everything around her. He knew what she would be seeing out that window; the detached garage, the door opened partway during the day so Baby could breathe, and Ben’s basketball hoop.

“Quit poking around.” He snapped.

She pivoted on her heel and threw him a look with daggers in it. “It’s _your_ dream, sunshine. If you don’t want me in this memory, pick a different one.”

And just like that, the scene shifted.

Zee grabbed onto the nearest thing for support as the carpet melted beneath her feet, reconsolidating as aged linoleum. Dean found himself standing next to a familiar fridge, a half full dish drainer beside it. The row of telephones on the kitchen wall were roughly labeled with masking tape, “FBI”, “CDC”, “US Marshals” and the less glamorous, “Tom’s Plumbing.” 

Dean swallowed. He was going to have to watch what he thought about, or he was going to wind up giving her a tour of his life. And no one wanted that.

“How do I know you’re real?” He asked bluntly, heading her off before she could move again, looking through his past in this diorama of it.

One shaped eyebrow quirked up. “You think you’re making me up?”

Well, okay. She had a point. She was definitely not on his guest list of people he might invite to have a look around his walnut. She’d seen too much already.

“Djinn?” He asked, looking around at the cluttered room, books and papers scattered on every surface, mixed with half empty herb packets and spare parts of guns. He reached for the silver dagger that Bobby kept in the knife drawer.

“No marks. And the real you is still back in the motel room, just—sleeping.”

That was a nice way of saying that he was lying there, dead as a doorknob, not breathing, still and cold.

“Why didn’t you guys just leave me alone?” The demand came out harsher than he intended. But it was the perfect solution—finally dead again, properly dead and immobile and not hurting anyone.

The look she flicked at him was pointed. As if he should have known the answer to his own question.

Sam.

He blew out a frustrated breath, impatient steps taking him into Bobby’s study/den/living room. There was a bottle of whiskey sitting open at the corner of the desk. Out of habit, he poured himself two fingers worth and tilted the bottle in her direction.

She shook her head.

His lips pulled taut as he set both the bottle and the glass down, looking at her narrowly again. That stitch in her side had to be hurting like a son-of-a-bitch, and all the banging around the last few days couldn’t have helped, but she was just doing her zen-samurai thing again, and ignoring it. Just because he got the control thing didn’t mean it should go on 24/7 without end. Did she never let her hair down?

She went back to looking at the books lying open on the kitchen table.

“Revelations?” She glanced up at him. “Mean anything to you?”

Crap. She was going to head-shrink him in his own head. Face his fears, control his dreams, whatever--he would pay whatever the price was of getting out of here without getting all mentally bare-ass-naked in front of her _again_.

Besides, they’d done that chapter already.

He went around the desk and headed across the room to her, ready to take the book out of her hands. He had no more than taken two steps over the knock-off Persian rug in front of Bobby’s desk when his left foot stuck to the ground.

Dammit. Dammit, dammit.

He’d forgotten that was there. Well. He hadn’t forgotten the devil’s trap beneath the rug. He’d forgotten he needed to avoid it.

She looked up curiously when he grunted, pulling at the invisible tethers to no avail. It was futile, but that didn’t stop him from trying with outraged, stubborn fury at the whole absurd situation of being trapped by a devil’s trap in his own mind.

She glanced at the rug beneath his feet and then at him again, one eyebrow arching up.

“Seriously?”

He scowled.

With a flick she had her knife out, and was moving to pick up the edge of the rug to free him when an invisible shape bowled past him and knocked her back, sending her sprawling clear across the floor to slam into the kitchen cabinets.

“Zee!”

He spun around, a full 360, trying to see what was in here with them. He couldn’t see anything. She shook her head as she sat up, biting down on the corner of her lip the way she did when stuff hurt like shit, and scrambled awkwardly to her feet, gun pointed at nothing, having drawn it out of pure reflex. She moved towards him cautiously, turning as she did so, looking and seeing nothing but a clear room.

This time he felt the air move, a breeze, and shouted, “Down!”

She ducked and rolled, in one smooth motion kicking up the rug and scratching through the outer circle of the trap with the butt of her Glock. Instantly he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up, running down the hallway towards the basement door, holding the First Blade out ahead of him.

The something brushed by him, got in front of him, and materialized.

Bright light, blue light, not angel light, burning like fire.

A ghostly shape of a hand reached out, palm extended, and touched his forehead.

PAIN. Painpainpainpainpain.

He flinched and stumbled back, his eyes squeezing shut because it was so bright he couldn’t see, and he was on fire, roasting from the inside out. It was still bright on the insides of his eyelids, bright in his mind, bright and inescapable, searing. A hand came around his wrist and tugged, and he went with it, needing to get away from the brightness, the unbearable burning, until suddenly blessed relief came with the sound of a door being kicked shut.

He was kneeling, trying to clench in on himself to get away from that sense of his skin being seared on a hot grill. He scrambled blindly, trying to get his bearings, knowing they were at the top of the stairs and not wanting to tumble down them but he couldn’t see, his eyes welded shut by the brightness, the fear of it, that if he opened them, the light would flood in and eviscerate him, vaporize him and leave him a shell with burnt out hollows where his eyes used to be.

Gentle hands came around his cheeks, her thumbs stroking and soothing along his cheekbones, wonderfully cool. 

“Hey. Hey. I got you. I got you. Easy.”

His own words, repeated back to him softly, concern rounding her voice, low like a whisper, threading through the fire in his mind. The air shifted as she knelt in front of him. He put a hand on her shoulder to get his bearings, unable to see her, but knowing where she was by feel.

“Light switch behind you.”

She slipped from his grip as she stood up, looking for the switch. His hand skimmed down her shoulder along her arm, and she turned her palm into his, holding onto his hand in the dark as an anchor, to keep her from falling off the narrow first step going down into Bobby’s basement. He blinked furiously, trying to clear his sight, grimacing when his eyes watered.

The room swam blurrily into view as the light came on.

“We’ve got to move.” He squeezed the last burning teardrops from his eyes and tugged on her hand, leading her down the stairs, heading to the panic room.

She balked when she saw the iron door.

“Are you nuts? You can’t go in there.”

“But you can. Come on.”

She jerked her hand out of his grasp. “No. Forget it. You are not parking me in the safe room and running off to do…” she gestured angrily, “your noble hero crap.”

He kept his jaw from dropping open, because it wanted to, but it would have only made him look stupid. Was she dense? He wasn’t trying to be a hero. It was just pragmatic. The panic room was the safest place in the house, and whatever that was out there, he didn’t know how to fight it. It hurt when he even looked at it.

He couldn’t protect her.

“Listen, princess. If you die in here, you die out there. You get that? For real. I’m not taking any chances.”

He wasn’t prepared when she closed the distance between them and glared up at him, not quite nose-to-nose, although that was the idea, fire and irritation blazing bright through the ice and calm.

“Cut the self-sacrificing crap and focus. We’re getting out of here together, or not at all.” She held up a finger when he started to interrupt. “How long do you think it’s going to be before Sam knocks back a cup of that dream root himself, huh? An hour? Two? And what’s Toby going to do then? Yeah. Exactly. So stow your shit and think. What the hell was that?”

“Angel.” He whispered, guilt shading his voice.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Huh.” She said skeptically. “Well, I guess. I would have chosen a more imposing vessel. Less Chucky Cheese, more Wall Street.”

_Chucky Cheese…_ “Who did you see?” He demanded.

She was picking through the tangle of stuff on Bobby’s shelves, settling on an iron crowbar not unlike the one she had in the trunk of her SUV before she came back to his side.

“A young man. Twenties. Skinny. Red stripe-y uniform. Outfit short one helicopter beanie. Ghost-y looking.”

He didn’t know angels became ghosts. Or maybe it was just the soul of Samandriel’s vessel. Maybe hanging out with all that grace nuclear-charged him somehow.

“You know him.”

“Maybe.”

“Friend or foe?”

“Neither. I thought…” It was a hard world, grayer than it used to be. The lines had gotten blurred somewhere along the way, he didn’t know when, couldn’t remember. Maybe it was the first time he’d agreed to work with Crowley. Maybe it was way back when he had sold his soul.

The iron wall of the panic room blistered his skin when his fist smacked into it. Her hand shot out and locked on his wrist, restraining his wound up arm, preventing him from hitting the wall again, looking at his raw and peeling knuckles. He caught her eye and held her gaze, his stare intent, looking meaningfully down at his hand again, the flesh on it clean and all fixed up, because he could do that now. Because he was one of those unnatural things that was supposed to stay outside the panic room, and that iron bar in her hand would burn him.

Maybe the angel-ex-vessel-ex-Alfie was right to hunt him.

If the angels couldn’t fight him out there, in here was as good a place as any.

Her fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, and the expression on her face was … something thoughtful.

He yanked his arm out of her grasp. He didn’t want her pity. “You should try waking up. Elm Street’s not your kind of neighborhood, sweetheart.”

She looked an inch away from smacking him. He’d bet she was thinking about it, the way her eyes narrowed and her hand twitched. With a deep breath, she stepped into his space again, the words clear and cuttingly precise.

“Together. _Or_. Not. At. All.”

She polished that off with a glare that cut through him. Not gentle, not coaxing, not like Sam. Hard, with an edge of steel. The air fizzed with it.

Where had that come from?

With a snap, she turned it off and stepped away, thinking.

“We’re not seeing the same thing, are we?”

All he had seen was light. A ball of it, unbelievably brilliant, kind of like…

“A soul.”

“What?”

“I’m seeing his soul.”

He had the First Blade in his hand when he’d encountered Alfie’s ghost. He thought he’d gotten past going all eyes-of-night whenever he held it, but maybe not.

She considered that for a minute.

“Soul or spirit?”

“Soul. Spirits are more,” he made an undefined gesture, “wispy.”

As he said that the room rumbled, the slab floor beneath his feet undulating like a wave. He grabbed on to her as the shelves and panic room vanished and they were suddenly in the secret room of Pastor Jim’s church, the white tidiness of it startling after the dark clutter of Bobby’s basement.

Zee looked around quickly.

“Did you do that?”

He didn’t have to answer. He was looking down at the floor around him, the lines of a devil’s trap carved deep into the concrete floor. 

He didn’t remember that being there.

Glowing letters appeared beneath his feet, etching into the concrete with their blue light.

Enochian.

He gasped, dropping to his knees, hands going to his throat where a noose was being tightened, squeezing, choking. He didn’t need air, he knew this, but he gasped blindly anyway, trying to inhale a human memory, trying to stay conscious as blackness pressed in like weights, a box closing around him, the walls moving in, awareness shrinking and shrinking until everything that was him was swallowed up by the dark.

******

Dean was too still. Sam resisted the cold feeling in his stomach, resisted the desire to huff and the desire to pace, trying to keep it together for the kid sitting by his side. He turned and checked Zee’s pulse again, aware that Toby’s eyes followed his every move.

“They’ll be okay.” He said reassuringly. “We’ve done this kind of thing before.”

Just then, Zee’s hand clamped hard around his, her grip painful. His heart leapt, but her eyes stayed closed, moving rapidly in a REM sleep pattern.

A sound from behind turned him around.

“Dean?”

Dean was sitting stiffly up on the bed.

Dean’s eyes flicked open.

White.

Pure milky white.

The next ten seconds were a blur. Toby shot off the bed and was clear across the room under the motel table before Sam could move. The thing that used to be Dean sniffed once, his head rotating with eerie slowness in their direction like he scented food. Sam gasped as the other bed hit his butt, having stumbled backwards into it, and he couldn’t find enough air in the room. His brother’s arm came up, reaching for him with hands flexed like claws, wanting to tear into his flesh.

The angel blade was in his hand, a reflex, mostly.

This was not the way it was supposed to end.

As suddenly as they had opened, Dean’s eyes snapped shut. Dean slumped backwards onto the bed, hands falling limply to his side, stiff and motionless again.

In between the cussing and the WTFing and pretty much every thought in the book running through his head, Sam realized he didn’t see Toby anywhere.

“Toby? Toby! TOBY!”

The room door was partially open. He heard things being thrown around next door. With a last worried look at the two sleeping figures, he hurried next door to find Toby making a wreck of the other room, looking for stuff. There was a little pile forming on one bed: holy water, matches, and a can of salt.

“TOBY!” Sam barked. He didn’t mean to bark, but it came out as a bark anyway. He breathed in, put the reins on his frustration, and tried again. “Toby.”

The kid spared him a glance before he started rummaging again.

“Come here.”

Toby shook his head mutely.

“We need to get back and keep watch. Come on.”

Toby backed up, his backpack clutched tightly in one hand. Sam was well aware there was a flare gun in there. They might have taught the kid a little too well. He reached for his last shred of calm and squatted down.

“I know that looked bad back there, Toby. But Dean will come back from it. He always does.”

The look Toby gave him was completely feral. Yeah, shaded truths and reassurances weren’t going to cut it with this kid. Sam reached into his jacket reluctantly.

“And I’ve got this.” He drew out the shining angel blade. “I will keep you safe, Toby. I promise.”

Toby slanted him another look, piercing in a way that was a lot like Zee, cutting through his bullshit.

“You want to keep an eye on Zee, don’t you?”

The kid’s face twisted with indecision. From the bottom of his heart, Sam wished he didn’t have to do this, use the unfair leverage of Toby’s affections against him.

“Come on. Dean’s back asleep now. That doesn’t usually happen with zombies, does it?”

A head shake, but no movement. Toby stayed planted where he was, back carefully against the wall, watching his every little twitch intently.

“Dean will fight through it. He’ll be himself again. Dean comes back.” His voice cracked, and he coughed to clear it. “Dean always comes back. I promise.”

Toby was quiet. The months the boy had been on his own were all there on his face, hard angles and sharp lines, nothing of the kid he had come to know left there. 

Sam waited. It was time they couldn’t really afford, but he waited.

At long last, Toby stepped forward, picked up the holy water and the salt, leaving the matches on the bed, and edged by him, heading to the next room. The kid laid a salt line straight down the middle of the room, between the two beds, then sat down next to Zee, holding the holy water uncapped in one hand, looking a challenge at him.

He said nothing. What could he say?

He simply stepped over the line and took up his position besides his brother again.

And he prayed.

******

Dean woke with a gasp, rolling over onto his stomach, fumbling to get his knees under him. He scrambled to the small bathroom adjoining the safe room, and puked up his guts.

When nothing more would come up, he splashed some water on his face, rinsed out his mouth and stood clinging on to the cold white porcelain sink, shaking. He really wanted to toss his cookies again, but he couldn’t afford it. They didn’t have time.

He was a frickin’ zombie.

He swallowed, and swallowed again to keep the nausea at bay. When his knees stopped trembling like a girl’s, he rested his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, breathing hard.

Speaking of which…

He looked around, pushing away from the mirror in a rush, throwing himself on unsteady legs in the general direction of the doorframe, and out into the safe room. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Zee, sitting on the floor next to the devil’s trap, leaning against a pick she’d manage to unearth somewhere, the crumble of concrete next to her feet.

“What the hell happened?”

They spoke at the same time.

“I’m a zombie.”

“You passed out.”

“What do you mean you’re a zombie?”

He paused at the pure ice in her tone. She had both hands wrapped around the pick handle, her look in his direction measuring.

“I was back in the motel room. For just a second. I saw Sam.”

Nausea boiled over and sent him back to the bathroom again. He leaned his head against the porcelain and considered just staying there.

Zee’s clear voice came from the other room.

“You were hungry.”

His head shot up and his feet moved him to lean against the doorway.

“How’d you…” His eyes fell on the sticky wet dark patch on her side. She looked around the room, examining the wall of weapons and supplies neatly stacked in the alcove below, then at the Enochian lettering in the center of the devil’s trap. She made to stand, using the pick handle as a kind of lever to push herself off the ground.

Her legs gave way.

He had one arm around her, holding her up by the arm and by the waist, before either of them could think about it. His hand came away wet and warm from her side.

“Dammit.” He slid his arm around her more securely. “Would it kill you to ask for help? How long has it been like that?”

She didn’t answer, which he took to mean that chunk the zombie queen took had never healed properly.

“Fuck.” He swore, moving to pick her up.

She pushed away from him impatiently, pulling on her arm when he didn’t let go.

“It’ll stop in a minute.” She snapped, white-lipped. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

She was eyeing the concrete floor, at the now dull Enochian lettering in the center of the devil’s trap.

“Can you move us? Outside? Somewhere with soft ground?”

Then they were by the lake where Bobby had taken them fishing once, when Sam was six and three questions beyond his quota. He’d always suspected Bobby had taken them there for the sole purpose of shutting Sam up, but they had spent just that one glorious afternoon doing nothing but watching the lure bobbing on the water and being warmed by the sun. There was grass underneath his feet and open blue sky above, and the picnic bench just there where they had eaten their sandwiches and first curly fries.

Zee took a deep breath, taking in the grass-scented air. She looked out over the lake, eyes on the sunlit water. She didn’t look at him when she spoke again.

“You need to stay in control.”

He tensed, because he knew where she was going. Two souls, one body.

“You’re a _demon_. You know how to do it.”

How to seize control of a consciousness, push it aside and take over. It was his own body, his own _meat suit_ , granted, but to do that thing that was basically possession, to take a step down the path that made him like all the others, to be the smoke that came pouring out of mouths…he stepped away from her.

“No.”

She didn’t move from where she stood, still looking out over the lake.

“It’s our only option.”

“It’s too risky.”

She didn’t understand. Sam would have understood. Sam would have got it. The thing in him, the rage and the anger, the killer. What happened when he held the First Blade in his hand.

She was asking him to pick it up.

“It’s the lesser of two evils.”

“You don’t get it, sister.” His voice was harsh.

She turned and faced him head on. 

“I’m afraid I do.”

Cool. How could she be so cool? There was nothing on her face but decision. No feeling. No emotion.

“The kid will die. Is that what you want?” He ground out. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill…”

He stopped there.

She took one step towards him, and he was looking into amber, wondering if this was what a bug felt like when they got trapped in tree sap and ‘preserved’ forever. Her look was searching, reaching into his head like she could _see_.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Her voice didn’t waver. What gave her the right to choose for the kid? For him? He was afraid he knew. He remembered how it had felt when one of those zombies had bit him, never mind the chunk the zombie queen had taken out of her. 

It wasn’t just a physical wound.

And he could feel the thing—it was easier if he thought of it as a shapeless thing, bright light, not as Alfie, with his absurd hat and stupid red shirt, his too earnest face, drafted into a war between angels and angels and demons on the side he didn’t even know existed when he naively said yes—battering at the edges of this memory, trying to tear it down. Dean held the sky bright in his mind, the sun at high noon, and the edges of the bubble of thought they existed in secure from the hungry desperation that was outside it. The wrongness of it, a soul not in its own body, not resting as promised in heaven, finding itself relentlessly surrounded by rot and decay and death, darkness seeping into the light, making everything gray. Restless and angry, but not a spirit, bound by the needs of the flesh, slowly being driven insane by the hunger.

Alfie didn’t deserve this. 

“There’s got to be another way.”

She looked up at a dark cloud on the horizon line.

“We don’t have time.”

Her voice was even, matter-of-fact, and without give. Sam would have found another way. Sam would have understood how dangerous this was, to be the demon, to give in to the temptation.

Sam was out there, sitting right next to him.

He had to choose how Sam would die.

******

About five things happened at once.

Dean spun off the bed, a flurry of movement so fast Sam just narrowly ducked the First Blade sailing over his head. Dean’s eyes were fully black, and he snarled, his face a sharp mask of fury, deepening when Toby doused him with the full bottle of holy water, the sizzle of skin and smoke off his arm loud. Sam stepped between the kid and his brother, his angel blade up and his heart in his throat, still thumping away in its awkward new home, getting in the way of his breathing.

This was it. This was really it.

A ball of something whitish-blue flew out from the tip of the old jawbone, whipped angrily across the room and disappeared out into the night. The demon turned on them, shaking with rage, smoke still wisping off the places where the holy water had burned him. Sam tried to make his arm not tremble, but the adrenaline rush was too strong. He wasn’t prepared when the First Blade crashed into the shorter angel blade in his hand, the impact reverberating up his arm. His arm shook for real, bracing, trying to hold the First Blade back and yielding before the demon stepped back, gathering himself for another swing. Sam backed up, trying to find Toby behind him without looking, preparing to run. He couldn’t take another hit like that.

Then a blur of motion blew by him, going in the wrong direction, and Zee was in front of him, catching the second swing of the bone blade with her short sword, only to have it shatter in two as the First Blade cut right through the steel and came to a bare stop at the skin of her neck. The demon looked right at her, and she met its eyes, stare for stare, dead calm and dead still.

Sam reached forward and yanked her back out of harm’s way, thrusting her unceremoniously behind him while watching the Blade quiver in place.

“Dean?” He said carefully.

Slowly Dean looked at him, eyes going to green, rocking with the effort of it. He let his arm drop. Sam heard the sound of Toby’s quick footsteps as the kid came running up and threw his arms around Zee, pulling her back. She turned to the kid, looped her arm around him and held him briefly to her before sitting down with a plop on the bed behind her, breathing hard.

There was a weak knock on the door.

Followed by a thud like a body falling against it.

Sam drew his Beretta before edging to the door and peeping out the peephole.

He yanked it open, just in time to catch Cas as the bloodied half-angel slid weakly down along the door frame.

Cas grabbed him by the front of his shirt on his way down, Cas’ knuckles scraped and raw like his face, and got out just one gravelly word.

“Run.”


	36. Prayers for the Damned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by SIXX:AM.

“Run” was a woefully unspecific instruction in the orderly place that was Sam’s mind. It sparked all sorts of questions, such as “Where to?” and “How quickly?” and the one that always seemed to set people off, “Why?”

But before Sam could get any of those out, Cas’ eyes rolled backwards up into his head and Zee collapsed backwards onto the bed, and in the ensuing chaos he met his brother’s eyes across the room. Without having to discuss it further, he grabbed and shoved Cas into the Impala while Dean deposited Zee in the Durango, a little hampered by Toby hovering over him with another bottle of holy water in his hand, then they mutely traded keys and cars so that all the humans were in one and all the not-quite-humans were in the other, and Dean took the lead.

They ran.

******

His cell phone rang.

“Dean?”

“Sam, we’ve got to stop. I just need to close my eyes…”

Dean’s voice slurred over the last word.

“Dean? DEAN!” Sam yelled into the phone. “CAS!”

The Impala ahead of them swerved drunkenly on the road.

“…just for a minute. Sam. I can’t…”

He watched in horror as the Impala pulled over the double yellow, rounding the curve precariously and veering off the asphalt.

“DEAN!!”

He could see Cas leaning over and grabbing the wheel, steadying the car as Dean slumped forward. The Impala continued to roll, half on the pavement and half off, slowing by degrees. He was already out of the Durango and running, yanking the driver’s side door open and engaging the parking brake as he pushed Dean’s foot forcefully off the gas. The car stopped. Cas fell back in his seat, breathing heavily.

Zee slammed out of the SUV and looked in the passenger side window, past Castiel, at Dean. 

Cas peeled Dean’s eyelids back and peered into his eyes. Cas frowned.

“What is it?” Sam asked. “What’s doing this? Why is he sleeping again?”

“Again?” Cas looked up sharply. “This happened before?”

Sam looked unhappily over at Zee, whose lips were tight in a flat line.

A car door opened and shut behind them, followed by the sound of light running footsteps.

“Dammit.” Zee swore succinctly. “TOBY!”

She started after him, and flinched when she moved, pulling on her right with a grimace.

“I’ll get him.” Sam said shortly.

It took him a minute, his longer strides making short work of the distance. He didn’t even try to calm Toby down, just nabbed him and swaddled him securely so the kid wasn’t beating on his head with both fists, carrying him back towards the Impala and to Zee, who took his hands, and said. “Toby. Stop. Stop.”

The kid looked at her, completely freaked, before stealing a glance at Dean, his lower lip trembling. “He’s going to turn. He’ll be like Mother. He’ll ….”

Zee put both hands on Toby’s face, steadying him, forcing him to look into her eyes. Her voice was calm and steady when she addressed the boy.

“The Dean you know is still in there. He’s just got to fight it.” She held the kid’s eyes. “He’s just going to need a little help. Can we do that? Give him a chance?”

Toby darted another look at Dean, where Dean was now slumped against the seat, out like a light. Sam felt the tremor that shook the kid from head to foot. Once, twice, three times, fear spiking uncontrolled. Zee breathed deeply and evenly, her hands steady, her gaze steady until Toby breathed with her.

Finally the kid nodded.

“Alright. Stay in the car. Got it?”

Toby nodded once, his face tense. He set Toby down slowly. The boy headed back to the SUV, one hand dipping into the pocket where he kept the lighter and staying there, curled into a fist around the only weapon he had. Sam looked at Zee, the certainty in her words lingering like a clear note in his mind. 

“We need to leave this area immediately.” Cas injected.

Sam traded a look with Zee. She nodded curtly and took the Durango’s keys out of his hand.

“I’ll manage. Let’s go.”

******

They manhandled the unconscious/sleeping Dean into the back seat of the Impala. Sam had an uncomfortable instant of déjà vu, placing Dean’s limp cold hand on his chest so it would be out of the way of the door before closing it. He slid into the driver’s seat and started up the engine, bringing the wheels carefully back onto the road as the SUV pulled ahead and took the lead.

He glanced worriedly back at Dean behind him in the rearview mirror. He huffed out a sigh, as Cas followed his eyes. And then there was Cas.

“Cas, what is this? What’s making him sleep?”

“A spell.” Cas said, looking warily behind them at the empty road as if he expected a chase to materialize behind them at any moment.

“What the child said. About Dean turning…”

“Back at the motel. There was a moment. His eyes…went white.”

It hadn’t been just Dean’s eyes. It had been the expression on Dean’s face.

_Hunger._

Part of him understood why Toby was so freaked. The possibility of Dean turning into a zombie like _Mother_ was …

“What are they, Cas? It’s not just zombies. We’ve never seen zombies this powerful before.”

Cas looked away before answering.

“Souls. Taken from the Veil and shoved back into corpses.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. The blue light that flew from the First Blade.

“Souls torn out of Heaven.”

_“What?”_

“Heaven has been taken by the Fallen.”

And with that Cas fell silent, brooding again.

“Cas?”

Cas glanced back at Dean asleep behind them, not answering, something stuck unspoken in his throat.

“They cannot be allowed to get control of Dean.” Was all Cas would say. “Everything he can do, the power of the First Blade—you cannot let it happen.”

******

Dawn blushed across the top of the Smokies, the morning haze cool as they wound their way down the mountains, taking turn after turn. The road straightened; stretching out its sharp kinks into the rolling foothills, tame pasture and vineyard smoothing the landscape over like a checkerboard into the green valley below.

They pulled into a Gas-n-Sip several hours after sunrise. He left Cas to fill up the tank while he went in search of some much needed caffeine, the jagged edges of fatigue heavy on his eyes. He was headed towards the cashier when a glimpse of unexpected movement in the overhead mirror caught his eye.

He threw an elbow behind him, trying to jab his attacker in the ribs. But before he could connect his head was yanked hard back, and he felt cold metal at his throat. He was pulled upright forcefully by the grip in his hair, the blade at his throat never wavering, and marched back through the store’s glass doors into the morning light.

Zee glanced up curiously at his quick return, the comment on her lips dying as she took in the situation. She pivoted to Cas, standing by the Impala with the gas nozzle in one hand.

“Dean’s anti-possession tat. Burn it off! Burn it off, now!” 

Cas was moving before she finished her sentence. He reached in through the rear window and placed his palm over the spot on Dean’s chest where the tattoo was. Dean’s breath hissed out when blue light flashed between Cas’ palm and his skin, waking up with a growl, scanning all around him, eyes black.

Demon.

Dean didn’t bother with the car door. He simply teleported, vanished right out of the Impala into thin air. Before Sam could even blink he was blown face forward into the ground by a blast of bright white light – _grace? –_ and it was a reflex to drop and roll and draw his own angel blade, to turn on whatever danger was nearest.

Dean.

Dean stood behind him, eyes dark and anger radiating off him, looking at him, looking into him, seeing all the faults and crevices and failings that riddled his soul.

“Go ahead, Dean.” Said a familiar velvet voice. “You want to. You know you do.”

Sam looked up. Gray suit, gray tie, and an idle, cold smile he remembered from that church in Geary.

“Arkas.”

Over by the gas pumps Cas was being held hostage again by a second gray suited angel, Cas’ arms wrenched behind him, the point of an angel blade poised against Cas’ chin. Arkas had brought more minions this time, eight angels, spread out in a ring around them, silvery blades drawn and flickering in the late morning light. 

The black Durango behind the Impala was empty, Zee and Toby nowhere to be seen.

Arkas took a step forward, a knowing, confidential smile on his face as he approached Dean.

“Did Cain ever tell you what he felt when he killed Abel?”

Dean’s head turned slowly towards Arkas, scanning him with an impersonal glance. The angel leaned forward, and lowered his voice.

“Relieved. He felt relieved. Relieved he no longer had to watch over his little brother. Always having to bail him out of one thing after another. Always having to look out for him. He was finally free. Free of his responsibility. Free of his burden.”

The First Blade quivered in Dean’s hand, those dark eyes pulling away from the gray suited figure as Dean turned towards him.

Sam stopped breathing, looking into the darkness of his brother’s eyes, seeing his reflection in that mirror blackness, seeing his own tainted and patched-up soul, never measuring up, never enough to make things right. 

Maybe what Arkas said was true.

“Sam, he’s lying.” Cas got out, stopping when the angel blade at his throat dug in and the bright light of Theo’s grace glowed through.

“Am I, Castiel? And whose grace is it that’s powering you now? That’s right. Theo’s. You remember. _Our_ _brother_. So maybe, I wouldn’t talk.” Arkas curled his lip in a sneer. “Well, boys. Since we’re all about family, I have a little present for you, courtesy of your pal Cas.”

The angel reached into his suit jacket, drawing out a squirming ball of blue light.

“Getting rid of Samandriel was impressive, Dean. But I can see you’re a sentimentalist, deep under that mangy, macho exterior.” Arkas smiled thinly, looking at the soul in his hand. “So what do you say to a chat with dear old Dad, hmm? Bet he’d _love_ to see what you’ve been up to lately. What you’ve become.”

Sam didn’t even think. There was a hot buzzing blankness between his ears and he was midair before Arkas even finished speaking, the angel blade pointed straight for the bastard’s throat with a lunge. He found himself airborne again before he crashed into the gas pump, the metal ridges digging into his back painfully as Arkas flicked his other hand negligently.

“Come now, Sam. Surely you’ve learned from last time.”

Dean moved forward, swinging the blade, point low.

Arkas held the bright soul in his hand higher.

Dean stopped uncertainly.

“Poor thing. Not sure what to do?” Arkas’ smile widened. “Maybe Daddy can help.”

Arkas stepped forward, the blue ball of light raised in one hand, held against his upraised palm in a smiting gesture. Dean flinched back violently from the light, blinking like it pained him, burned him. Dean turned his eyes away, shuddering violently, trying to keep his feet but slowly going to his knees, one arm coming up to ward off the light as it danced blue white over his skin.

Sam struggled against the invisible force that pressed him firmly against the gas pump.

“DEAN!!!!”

Dean wasn’t listening. The blue glow in the angel’s hand pulsated and squirmed like no soul Sam had ever seen do before, straining against the angel’s tight grasp. Arkas’ lips tightened irritably and he clenched the bright orb of soul tighter, moving ever closer to Dean in front of him.

Arkas’ attention was taken up completely wrestling the ball of light in his hand and the Knight of Hell before him that Sam felt the pinning force on him slip away like distraction. He had momentum by the time he hit Arkas in the chest, taking him down in a flying tackle that sent them both skidding along the ground, fighting for the soul in Arkas’ hand.

There was motion behind him.

Dean, the First Blade poised over both of them, a terrible anger in the blackness of his eyes.

For the next infinite second, everything was still.

Then there was the sickeningly distinctive squelch of flesh being cut. The gray angel screamed as the First Blade hacked through his wrist, severing it. The ball of light zipped off as the fingers that gripped it loosened, sailing high and skyward, disappearing into the sun. Blood spurted from the angel’s truncated arm, both blood and light as Arkas threw him off one-handed with enough force to send him halfway across the gas station, crashing into one of the vertical posts hard. His head smacked up against the concrete, and his world went dark.

*****

She’d grabbed Toby out of the back seat of the car and just run. She had one hand over his mouth for good measure, kneeling quietly behind the Gas-n-Sip’s dumpster. The angels paid them no attention whatsoever. They had what they wanted.

The brothers. And Castiel.

“GET THE DEMON! GET HIM!” Arkas screamed at the others, clutching his severed limb, the angry twist of his thin face bordering on insane. “KILL HIM NOW!”

One angel was startled into a protest, “But Ramiel said…”

“I SAID KILL HIM!”

Using his good hand, Arkas cauterized his bleeding stump with a flash of blue light and an inelegant grunt. He got slowly to his feet, cold blue eyes fixed on the demon holding the bloody Blade. 

“Ramiel wants you and your brother and Castiel alive. Why, I can’t imagine. But you know, _Knight_ , accidents happen. I’ll apologize profusely, but he’ll understand. He’ll just have to make do with Sam.”

The demon swung the First Blade in a wide low arc, keeping the angels around him at bay.

“Finish him off.”

When they rushed, the angels moved in unison, closing in on the demon from all directions. Bright light blew out from the angel’s eyes and mouths as the demon blade thrust and sliced, vibrating with darkness, shadows coalescing around it and the demon that held it like a black nimbus. The light of grace blew out of noses and mouths as the angels fell one by one lifeless to the ground, the ancient jawbone sinking with a sucking sound into chests before being pulled out again by the demon that wielded it, rage and carnage thrumming in every stroke.

But there were too many. The last angel got behind the demon and seized him while the First Blade was embedded in the chest of another, grasping him by his wrist and immobilizing his arm. Arkas stepped forward into the fray, his silver blade held high, a tight, vicious smile on his lips.

He plunged the angel blade straight through the Mark of Cain on the demon’s forearm.

With an inhuman howl of pain, the demon sank to the ground, the First Blade slipping limply from his hand. A red molten glow from the Mark melted up the silver blade, which blazed blue white in turn, too bright to look at. Arkas sank the angel blade home, driving it in to the hilt, right down through the demon’s forearm, the square thickness of the blade completely obscuring Lucifer’s brand. 

The Mark’s red glow faded. Streaks of white traced up the demon’s arms along his veins like lightening, and small wisps of smoke began to curl off the demon’s skin. The smell of charred flesh wafted through the air as the Mark of Cain started to flicker with fire.

She clamped her hand more firmly over Toby’s mouth, muffling his telltale protest. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Castiel twisting violently around, seizing the advantage while his captor was distracted by the Mark of Cain burning.

_Dean_ , burning _._

She let go of Toby’s hand with a final squeeze to _stay_ and moved.

It was too easy. Too easy to just pick up one of the angel blades lying on the ground. Too easy to slip between the angel who had his hands full and the demon he was restraining. Too easy to ram the blade into the angel’s sternum and drive it in until grace blew out as a blast of power, numbing her arm, forcing her down on one knee. She gripped the hilt tightly, holding the knife steady until the body slipped limply off, the vessel’s eyes charred and blank, the charcoal shadow of great wings splashed on the ground before her.

The moment his arm was free, Dean swung and clubbed Arkas across his nose, sending the gray angel flying across the gas station and crashing into a pillar between the pumps. The noise woke Sam, shaking his head groggily, rolling and getting his feet under him, looking warily around. 

With a twist Dean pulled the angel blade loose from where it was embedded in his arm, that arm healing, skin knitting over and reforming the Mark of Cain as if the wound had never been. He looked across at Arkas, struggling to rise, then at the bloody angel blade in his hand, and cast aside heaven’s weapon with a careless flick. 

The First Blade shot off the ground into Dean’s now empty palm, and a smile, as cold as the angel’s, played around Dean’s lips. A dark curl of smoke came off the First Blade, new, different, gathering in thickness and density, streaking out towards the fallen angel, wrapping around him, binding him, round and round until Arkas was trussed, squirming futilely and screaming as the smoke rope tightened and ate into his flesh.

The rope squeezed tighter. Bits of light bled through, like cracks in the vessel’s skin. Twisting in the light were dark threads, tracery and lacework like blood spreading in water. The dark threads merged with the smoke rope, the growing mass finely spiked like barbed wire, somehow alive and twisting.

Panicked, Arkas thrashed in vain, looking in horror at the demon ten feet away from him.

His expression unchanging, Dean turned the First Blade once in his hand.

The angel exploded. Grace burst out in all directions as the rope tightened and collapsed in, squeezing the grace out in one great burst of energy, the flesh and bone of the vessel charred to cinder and fine ash in the explosion. Twisted and woven into the blast were pieces of the gray angel’s dying cries, hoarse and panting, fear and more fear lingering in the air.

Dead silence reigned.

Zee didn’t move. It seemed prudent not to.

Castiel straightened slowly. Cautiously.

“Dean.” He said carefully.

The demon turned to look at him. Silent, like a dark tide.

Sam just stood where he was, the grip on his angel blade unchanging even though there were no more angels left standing.

The silver blade in her hand felt cold. The round hilt was bulky, the balance of it strange, the reach pathetic. Her arm was still numb from the blowback of grace, frozen stiffly in front of her.

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice. Low and carefully even. Barely a whisper.

The demon kept turning, turning until he faced her, the liquid blackness of his eyes looking at her, at the weapon in her hand, at her silence. Dark eyes traced the flat line of her lips, the narrow set of her eyes, the latent intent in them.

She already knew he could move faster than she could blink. Anything she could do would be futile.

Impulsive. She had been impulsive, the drive of her gut overriding common sense. It would have been simpler if she did not know the shape of his smile, the shadows of his loves, the memories of his heart. It would have been easier to shut it all out had she not known the imprint of his hand clasping hers, steady through hours of fire and darkness.

Toby was out there behind her. She had to try.

She met that dark gaze, breathing slow and even. Waiting. Watching as the black faded from his eyes and she was left looking into green eyes, green the color of new leaves, bright like the sun shone from behind them.

The angel blade clanked to the ground, falling from her ungraceful fingers. Time slowed like ley lines blurring, trapped in that eagle green gaze. Right or wrong or wronger or righter, misty in the gray ash that was the remains of an angel, drifting downwards to the ground, settling in thin drifts over the wingspan emblazoned wide on the asphalt. 

What had she done?

The hard impact that was Toby running into her jarred the moment loose. The boy’s thin arms wrapped around her waist as Toby darted a look at Dean, uncertainty clouding his face. A tremor shook the kid from head to foot, adrenaline, too much of it; his fragile toehold on what passed for normal in a world of demons and angels and zombies and hunters, upended and turned all around in the space of a night.

What the hell was she doing?

Toby trembled involuntarily again. He bit his lips inwards, trying to control it.

This was no place for a kid.

“Come on.” She said quietly, turning away. “We should go.”

Sunlight glared off the Impala’s sleek blackness. A blue Mustang whooshed by on the road, the engine hum reverberating in the silence. Behind her, the boys were doing that wordless conferral thing again, look after look, a shrug of the shoulders, a twitch of the hand, a tilt of the head.

“Zee.”

Dean’s deep voice carried, even though he spoke quietly.

She inclined her head slightly, not meeting his eyes.

“Angel warding sigils, you know them?”

She shook her head just the once, a bitter laugh stuck in her throat. That wasn’t in the books. It wasn’t in the lore. On a normal day, you didn’t need to ward against angels.

She was getting ready to move again when Castiel’s weary footsteps fell in beside her.

“I’ll come with you. The sigils. It’ll be faster if I show you.”

She closed her eyes briefly. Complications. It would be complicated to stay entangled, to have this thread drifting across the miles, tying them one to the other, still caught in the outer swirls of the Winchester maelstrom. But she wasn’t fast enough. She couldn’t protect the kid whose hand was trustingly in hers.

She nodded assent with her head still turned away, moving towards the Durango without looking back.


	37. The Unforgiven III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Metallica.

The silence was thick as he turned the car west towards Kansas.

“Dean.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

He slanted Sam a look that would have withered anyone else into silence. Unfortunately, Sam was made of tougher stuff.

“Cas is hurt pretty bad.”

“I mean it, Sam. SHUT. UP.”

There was enough sharp frustration in his tone that Sam fell silent. It wasn’t going to last, but he’d bought himself a few precious minutes. He needed them. Needed to concentrate on not noticing the SUV fading to a pinpoint in the rearview mirror. Needed to turn off his awareness and not think.

Not feel.

He stole a glance down at his hands on the Impala’s steering wheel. It was hard not to see the fire there. All the things he had become. Dark, all of them dark, all of them burning and pain and danger. It was better for them all to be far away from him. Better if he could somehow get Sam to go too, except Sam was a stubborn cuss, and except he was weak, and he needed Sam.

Needed his brother.

How could he tell Sam the darkness was clawing at him? Clawing and winning? The things he could do now with his hands.

Toby knew it. He’d seen it in the kid’s eyes, too clear for his age. Wariness. The kid had remembered, even when it seemed Sam and Cas wanted to forget. To forgive.

He forced himself to breathe. She’d done the right thing, leaving. It was the smart thing to do. He didn’t need Sam to point out the obvious. He was poison. They’d gotten too close. And now they were marked, the kid and the girl, chips in a high stakes poker game they should never have been a part of in the first place.

He felt Sam looking at him. His brother’s eyes on the tightness of his face, looking for an opening, looking for hope.

She should have steered clear. They would have been safe.

His right hand tightened on the steering wheel as he glanced in the rearview at the empty road behind him.

Let go. He had to let them go. 

******

“Hello, boys.”

Unlike every other time Crowley had done his appartating trick into the backseat of the Impala, Dean knew he was coming and kept his foot on the gas without blinking. Sam, however, both hissed and yelped. Dean caught Sam’s arm before Sam futilely sliced through Baby’s upholstery with Ruby’s knife again and suffered Sam’s reproving glare without turning a hair.

“Crowley.” He replied without turning. The King of Hell stared speculatively at the back of his head before shrugging himself into what he had come to say.

“You’re going to need to do something about them.”

“About who?” Sam snarled.

“The Fallen, you moron. Dean knows.”

Sam darted a quick look at him. Like, _he does?_

Somehow he did.

Sam blanched.

A thousand questions popped into Sam’s head. He could see them like little thought bubbles over Sam’s gourd. Chief among them were: _How? I’ve been with you 24/7. How do you know these things now? Is there a supernatural Reddit that I don’t know about? Who are you? What are you? What else don’t I know about you?_

It was good for Sam to be unnerved. He should be. He couldn’t just go on thinking the person, no, the corpse sitting next to him, was his brother. His family. He wasn’t.

Not anymore. Not really.

“What do you got?”

He addressed the question to Crowley, cutting through the idle chitchat and getting to the heart of the matter. Crowley didn’t want to be here, and Crowley was being cautious, even for Crowley.

Fear.

Dean’s lip curled. Damned right he should be afraid.

Crowley hesitated.

“Talk.”

Sam looked sharply at his tone. At the command, so easily given.

“They’re sniffing around, the Fallen.”

“Who else besides you knows the keys?”

Crowley gave him an exasperated look.

“No one, you great dumb oaf. Think I’d still be alive if anyone else did?”

“How’d you get them, then?”

Crowley pursed his lips. “King of the Crossroads, remember? You thought humans are the only ones who want to make deals?”

“Can you keep them out?”

“Not anymore.”

Sam turned around to face the demon in the backseat. “What do you mean?”

“These aren’t wingless monkeys we’re dealing with anymore, Moose. With the power of the Holy High Above behind them, they can go anywhere. Do anything. Pluck whatever souls out of Hell they damned well please. Remember?”

With that, Crowley cast a look at the back of his head.

As if he could forget.

Sam’s lips tightened, like he didn’t need the reminder.

“So I figured the safest place was with you.”

Crowley tacked that last bit on guilelessly, but Sam just about shot through the roof.

“You are not coming with us!”

“Oh, come on, Samantha. I’m useful.”

“You’re duplicitous!”

The King of Hell tilted his head to one side deprecatingly.

“Hazards of the job.”

“If they can do anything they want now, why do they still need you?” Dean asked curtly, cutting through the bickering.

“They’re lazy. It’s tedious getting your feathers singed and sweaty getting souls out one by one. Far easier to release the floodgates if you have the keys.”

“And then what? What do they want all these souls for?”

“If I knew that, you think I’d be sitting here?” Crowley snapped back.

“What do you know about Ramiel?”

Crowley froze for a half second. Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“Crowley. What are you not telling us?”

Crowley flashed Sam an irate look.

“Loads, Jolly Green. What I know wouldn’t fit in your tiny brain.”

Sam’s face hardened.

“Crowley.” Dean interrupted abruptly. “Ramiel.”

“Lucifer’s second? The archangel of Hope? Bad news, mate. Word is he’s gone off the reservation. Even more so than most, and you have to admit, his brothers weren’t exactly pattern cards of sanity. Where’s Cas?”

The way Crowley asked was off-handed, incidental, even, but Dean’s attention snagged.

“Why?”

Crowley focused on buffing his nails against his lapels.

“Crowley.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Crowley.” Dean growled.

“There’s a price out on his head.”

Sam looked immediately at him. Worried.

“I thought they didn’t need him after they got Heaven.”

Crowley shrugged. “It sounded a bit personal, if you ask me.”

Dean looked at his hands again. Instinct and temptation, the right thing, the reasonable thing, bit at him. His knuckles were white with the force of his grip on the wheel, and the things he wanted—to turn the car around, to go make sure—he couldn’t do that. He shouldn’t.

He closed his eyes, blocking out the road for a moment.

“Cain. Can you find him?”

Alarm flashed across Sam’s face at those words.

Crowley made a rocking motion with his hand, considering the merits of the idea. _Maybe_.

“Find him.”

The only other person who knew what the First Blade could do. The only other person capable of holding Hell.

Just in case.


	38. Ashes of Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Breaking Benjamin.

He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. Things had not gone according to plan, assuming there had even been a plan. How had it all come to this? 

Castiel looked out over the expanse of the lake. A puddle compared to the ocean, a drop in the universe. He could just see the far shore, the dock there, miniscule and fading in the distance. It would not be long now until all he would be able to see was the stretch of water before him, yawing seemingly to the horizon when he knew it did not. And even this, the ability to see to the far shore, to know that Janine and Carl were celebrating their ‘anniversary’ with a picnic there, was nothing compared to what he had once been.

He looked down at his hands, scrubbed clean of the flecks of paint they had gathered from applying sigils to Zelda’s, Zee’s, lakeside house. He rubbed his hands together, speeding up the flow of blood to his fingertips, warding off the cold.

How was he cold?

He had been human before. He could manage it again.

It hadn’t been like this last time, though, caught in the evanescence of Theo’s grace, knowing more and feeling his sight fading. It hadn’t been like this, being reduced by the soft coil of human limitations slowly winding around him, binding his phantom wings.

He remembered his wings. Oh. How he remembered them.

He remembered grace. What it had been like to fly. To know light, to be certain of it. Certain of himself. Certain of the plan.

There had been a plan, right?

He no longer knew.

Unlike last time when Metatron stripped his grace from him and returned him to the earth human, this time, when Theo’s grace burned out, it would slowly take Jimmy’s body with it. It would take him with it too then, whatever he was—neither angel nor soul—some kind of disembodied freak of consciousness, with his imperfect angelic awareness and a human’s flawed sensibilities.

And that would be fine. He’d overstayed his time anyway.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the lake and the chatter of fish beneath the water’s surface. Tried to shut out the memory of Noah’s bleeding face, his brother, clutching desperately at his hand, Noah trying to summon the strength to rip out his own grace.

_“Take it, Castiel. Take it. You must take it. You have to keep fighting. This cannot be. You have to find a way to make things right.”_

_“No.”_

He’d held Noah until the other angel faded. Gone to wherever the end was for them, between the stars or the dimensions or nowhere at all. Perhaps they expired, returned to atoms or energy, to be composted into stardust, having served their function.

And somehow he was still here.

Creating chaos.

If this was part of the plan, it did not seem to be a very good plan.

The Fallen had taken Hannah. He could still hear the panicked chattering of his brethren, the ones still alive, the ones on Earth—the ones they hadn’t trusted enough to let back into heaven.

“What’s happening?”

“What’s happening at home?”

“Who’s in charge?”

“What are our orders?”

“Is it Metatron again?”

“What do we do?”

“Who do we follow?”

“What’s happening?”

It wouldn’t be long before a clear voice sounded above the fray and the rabble. A clear, strong voice, melodious and firm and certain. Guidance and direction.

Hope.

Castiel shivered. It was cold out here on Zelda’s deck. The noises coming from inside the house suggested there was some kind of food preparation activity going on. Did he now require sustenance? It was likely she would press him to eat, as she had pressed a gauze over the cut on his neck to stop the bleeding, bluntly pointing out he was no good to her if he bled out. He had used up precious grace then, looking at her, seeing her, seeing the zombie wound in her side. She had jerked back when he went to put two fingers to her forehead to heal her, but he still had an angel’s reflexes and it had been done before she could pull away.

Dean would have wanted that.

He stood up, brushing the dirt off Jimmy’s trench coat. He would do this thing Dean had wanted him to do, because it was small and somewhat doable and because he, Castiel, in his limited being—he _believed_ in his friend, and he _believed_ it to be the right thing to do.

As best he could, he would protect the woman and the child from the vengeful wrath that was now Heaven. 

How had it all come to this?

******

Toby came awake screaming. She was by his side in two steps. Without a word he flung his arms around her neck, shaking hard enough to feel again, trembling sobs muffled against her sweater. She held him quietly against her shoulder. Castiel was no more than a step behind her, scanning the room with an implacable expression that was a hard contrast to his normal one, the hilt of the angel blade slipped from his sleeve into the palm of his hand.

She shook her head at him. _No monsters here. Not real ones, anyway._

Did angels understand nightmares?

Maybe they did. The ragged shadows under Cas’ eyes came from something.

She rubbed Toby’s back until as his sharp sobs subsided into hiccups. He pulled back, swallowing, breathing gathering breaths.

Reining things in.

She hesitated mid-motion, not knowing the right thing to do.

Toby squared his shoulders, straightening away from her, lips setting into a straight line.

Familiar. Bit like looking into a mirror.

“Scoot over.”

She said it quietly, without inflection. He snuck a quick look at her face as she reached for the TV remote. He made room for her as she pulled the comforter up around him, sitting down next to him on top of it, and started flipping through the channels.

******

By the fourth night she was so tired it was five in the morning before she started awake, the wrongness of having been able to sleep for a few uninterrupted hours shocking her awake. She sat straight up, looking over at the bed where Toby lay fast asleep, his right hand curled around the hilt of a stout silver blade by his pillow. A shadow fell over the corner of the bed. Cas stood just beyond, gazing out the window with his back to the room.

He turned around to look at her, the blue of his eyes deeper than Toby’s, somehow bright in the darkness.

“It seemed to help.” He said in a gravelly rough voice that barely carried.

Zee closed her eyes. She tried to unclench her fist, her heart, her voice. In the shadowy dark the boy breathed deeply and evenly, his hand not letting go of the weapon in it. Sleeping. He needed the sleep to counter the smudges growing beneath his eyes.

Cas was looking steadily at her, seeing, no doubt, the agitation that lay in her uneven breaths. She got to her feet abruptly when Cas didn’t move from where he stood by the window and swept her sword off its rack with a silent cut through the stillness. Her legs moved her in familiar directions until she was out on the deck, the wide sweep of water night-silver before her. Her left hand closed tight around the scabbard with breaking force before she slipped the sword into position on her belt.

She set her right hand on the pommel. Looked out over the lake.

Her hand closed around the hilt.

Breathe.

There was only one way out now.

Flick.

There was no other choice.

Draw.

The steel blade slid free and sang through the cool chill of the morning. The rhythm of the pattern took over, one movement flowing into the next and the next, until at last the first hint of dawn rose to kiss the late winter mist.


	39. As Hope and Promise Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Chris Cornell.

The moves Castiel taught Toby were like none Zee had ever seen before. Working with the boy, the angel slowed the speed of his movements from a near invisible blur and adjusted the length of his steps with a patience not unlike Dean’s, the evenness of his voice eerily reminiscent of his friend. Zee wondered if Castiel had ever taught anyone before, if angels were ever children, or cherubs, or if they just emerged into the world fully formed with all they needed to know emblazoned in their minds.

They worked until Toby was exhausted enough to sleep at night, and then Toby spent far too much time staring and studying the sigils on the walls until she was sure he had them memorized. She caught Toby staring fixedly at the blood sigil Castiel had painted on the hallway wall with a casual slice of his own palm, with movements efficient and familiar like the angel had done it too many times before, and said firmly, “No.”

“But…” Toby protested.

“You’re not big enough yet. You’ll pass out from blood loss before you get halfway done.”

“What if…”

“No. You run.”

Toby tucked his lower lip in and frowned stubbornly.

“Promise, Toby.”

Toby’s face set.

“You’re no good to me unconscious on the ground, bleeding. When you weigh enough, we’ll talk about it.”

“How much?”

“At least 110 pounds. That’s how much you have to weigh to donate blood. Fair enough?”

Toby nodded reluctantly before walking away with a begrudging, “Okay.”

Cas padded up silently beside her from where he had been listening to the exchange.

“You do not want him to know all these things.”

She did not turn to look at the angel, staring instead at the shadows on the pale wooden floor.

“It’s a bit late for that.”

More than sight, she sensed Cas’ frown. 

“You don’t want him to learn to defend himself?”

She slid a sideways look at the puzzlement on Castiel’s face, the furrow between his brows, trying to understand, like the luxury of innocence was a concept he had never known. Perhaps it was so, if he had been born or made with the moves of battle woven into his being, intrinsic to him, and had never known otherwise. She stopped for a moment to consider the half-ex-angel besides her, perplexity still in his eyes.

“No. I would rather he had a choice.”

Blue eyes, piercing and deep, regarded her with searching intensity. Without a word Cas turned on his heel to follow Toby where the boy had wandered down the hall to stare at a different sigil, drawing on his palm to commit it to memory. Toby looked up briefly, startled by the angel’s shadow suddenly looming over him. Too late Zee recalled what Cas had done for Dean to give Lisa and Ben their normal lives. She only managed a sound when Cas placed his palm flat on Toby’s chest and two fingers to his forehead, and caught the boy when he slumped over in sleep without a whimper. She was by his side then, looking at the peaceful face of the sleeping child and the haggard face of the angel holding him, before she whispered, “You made him forget?”

Cas looked surprised.

"No.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I carved an Enochian warding into his ribs. He is invisible to the angels now.”

She caught Toby in her arms as Cas shivered suddenly and sagged against the wall, his hand trembling with something like the shakes.

“Castiel.”

“I’ll be alright. I just…need a moment.” He drew a steadying breath, fisting the shaking hand to control it. “This grace, it’s not mine.”

“Cas.” She placed her hand over his fist. “Sit before you fall over.”

He sunk heavily to the floor, sliding down the wall for support. She reached around the burden of the child in her arms and touched the angel’s cheek lightly, frowning at the gray pallor of his skin and the dark pockets that had bloomed beneath his eyes. Castiel looked up at her apologetically.

“I am afraid I cannot repeat the same warding for you. There is not enough grace left.”

“And when it goes?”

“I go.”

She kept her touch light on the dying angel’s face, the pattern of sunlight streaming down onto her arm striated by the Enochian drawn on the skylight above. Something pressed down on her chest, looking into those wide blue eyes, the preciousness of the grace so thoughtlessly given to heal her, to protect Toby, and yet the first words to cross his lips were of apology. Labored human breaths moved the angel’s chest up and down, and his skin was clammy cold beneath her fingertips. The large bruise and scab on his neck remained from where the angel blade had punctured his throat days ago, he had not bothered to heal that. She did not know of this creature before her what parts were grace and what parts flesh and blood, and she could do nothing about the grace or the guilt that laid heavy in his eyes, but if he breathed and bled then those were the only, if paltry, things she knew how to help him with.

She pulled her hand back and rearranged Toby in her arms so she could carry Toby to bed. Turning her head slightly as she stood, she addressed the trench-coated angel still leaning against the wall on the ground.

“Come on. That looks like shock. Let’s try getting some food into you.”

******

The bunker was too small. Too quiet. Too still.

Too much like a tomb.

“Got anything?”

Sam looked up from his laptop, drawing his lips into a patient line.

“The Fallen have been out of circulation for millennia, Dean. I have to dig.”

“Well, dig faster.”

Sam twitched on a swallowed rebuttal. He knew he was trying Sam’s patience, but he couldn’t help it. He hated this. Feeling. That sense of being suspended in the air, a part of himself hanging out there, vulnerable. He wanted it to stop.

He wanted to not care.

His right hand flexed. Sam’s eye came up at that motion—the twitch of his hand looking for the weapon that belonged there. Sam fixed him with a stare.

He wanted to ask Sam what it mattered. He was so tired. What difference did it make? There was only one way this was all going to end. He should pick up the First Blade and just go. Take care of things. Find this Ramiel douche, and he _would_ find him, archangel or not, and have it out. Knock down, drag out, fight to the end.

The things he could do now. He’d give Ramiel a run for his money, that much his gut said, that much the fear and consideration in Crowley’s eyes had told him. He could do that much.

“Dean.” Sam was standing up, one hand closing the lid of his laptop. “We could just call Cas. Just to check in and see how they’re doing. We could.”

He pivoted away from Sam, from Sam’s reasonableness. That was how they had gotten sunk into this mess in the first place, Sam’s reasonableness. And now there were pieces of himself just billowing out there in the wind, in the world, and he couldn’t reach out and gather them in because his hands were fire. It was pure torture. It was better if he touched nothing at all.

He should just go.

Some of his thought must have bled through in his eyes, because in two steps Sam was besides him.

“No. Don’t you dare.”

He had no idea if the bunker’s warding could keep him in. It was designed to keep things out.

“Dean.”

He looked at Sam. His brother. Trying to remember the face of his brother. Was that a good idea? Wouldn’t it be easier if it all didn’t matter?

“Dean.”

He’d never been able to stand it when Sam did that. It hurt. It hurt because he couldn’t fix it. He had never been able to fix it—the giant rent in his family that Azazeal had torn, the metallic smell of blood dripping from above and the heat lash of fire in his face, Dad thrusting Sammy into his arms and ordering him to run, Dad’s voice broken and the wet kiss of Dad’s tears with the smell of ash and smoke, everything ripping apart and apart and he’d never been able to fix it, patch it over, make things normal again. He’d never be able to go home again, never be able to square things for his little brother, and Death would always be a shadow over Sam’s shoulder.

Wouldn’t it be easier just to not care?

Sam had his phone out, dialing.

Dean swiped it from his hand and disconnected the call. For a long moment he just held the phone in his hand, his eyes closed around a tremble, his knuckles white, trying to remember to breathe in and breathe out, everything too close to the surface, trying not to crack. He could feel Sam’s stillness, without looking, the hard compression of Sam’s expression, waiting the moment out.

He cracked open his eyes on a pursed frown and slowly walked himself over to the long library table, piled high with fragile manuscripts and archaic, spidery books. Sam watched him, the careful evenness of his steps and the deliberateness of his motion as he pulled out a chair and sat down, before rejoining him at the mound of research that seemed like it would never end.

“Alright. Where do you want me to start? It’ll go faster with two of us.”


	40. Working Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Rush.

“Oh crap.”

Sam’s muttered imprecation was loud in the silence of the library.

“What?”

“That nephilim Cas killed for Metatron’s spell.”

“The half-angel-half-human?”

“Child of an angel and a human.” Sam corrected meticulously. “They’re the children of The Fallen, from when they came down to earth and took human wives. It says here that most of them were wiped out in the Great Flood.”

Dean blinked.

“The Great Flood, like _The Ark_ Great Flood?”

“Yeah.” Sam scoffed in agreement. “Anyway, only one of them, the most powerful, survived down through the ages. The daughter of Hope. Ramiel’s daughter.”

The chair clattered backwards as Dean shot to his feet.

“ _Dammit._ ”

Sam looked up from reading, worried.

“Dean, we’ve got to warn him. I doubt Cas even knows what he’s done. Metatron just pointed him in that direction and …”

Dean was already dialing.

******

The roar of a passing semi drowned out Cas’ voice over the phone. Behind that Dean could hear the steady rush of traffic passing by in the background like Cas was standing at a busy intersection. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off his incipient headache.

What part of ‘ _lockdown’_ was so hard to understand?

“CAS.” He repeated urgently into the speaker.

“Yes, Dean.” Cas shouted.

“What the _hell_ are you doing _outside_?”

“We needed food.”

Dean blew out an impatient breath.

“Well, get the damn food and get your ass back inside. And double up on your wards.”

“Why?”

“That nephilim you killed for the angel trials? She was Ramiel’s kid. Papa Bear’s still going to be looking for you.”

Silence.

“Cas?”

“I can’t ‘get my ass back inside’, Dean.”

It was going to be one of _those_ days. 

“Why not?”

“We’re looking for the boy.”

Dean’s lips compressed. He looked across the table, just to check if Sam was getting this.

“Toby?”

“Yes.”

He waited a beat. Nothing more came out of the phone.

“What’s happened with Toby?” He ground the words out, because his throat had seized.

“We’re not sure.”

He had to stay calm. He closed his eyes to shut things out and tried to ease up on his grip. He didn’t want to break the phone, because they needed the phone, but he was going to snap the thing in two if Cas kept giving him piecemeal answers like this. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. There was a drumming noise in his ears like the time he’d lost Sam in Flagstaff, and he couldn’t breathe. He looked over at Sam, because Sam was calm and Sam kept his head on and Sam minded the details and Sam didn’t let things get ahead of him, like the slideshow of horror flashing relentlessly by in his head right now, all the things he had seen in his life, bloody and broken and mutilated, playing out behind his eyes in the world’s longest second.

And Sam _was_ calm. Sam had his thinking look on, weighing their options.

“Cas, where are you?”

Dean’s head snapped up at the question. It was a no-no, _asking_ for the location of another hunter’s safe house. It was particularly egregious, past bad manners and straight into _shoot-on-sight_ territory, when one of you was a freakin’ _demon_. 

Sam tilted his head with a little shake: _extraordinary circumstances_. Never mind their life was a run of _extraordinary circumstances_. She’d made the point of getting the hell away from them, and now here they were going to be, gate-crashing her hideout, good intentions paving the damned road to hell.

There was a long pause that was Cas looking around.

“Near a lake.”

Dean bit his tongue and waited. And waited.

“And a MegaMart.”

“Cas, can you see any road signs? Any landmarks?”

How did Sam manage to sound calm like that?

“I believe we passed something called ‘Sugar Loaf Mountain’. And…”

Sam was typing as he listened.

“Lo Sparrow.”

Before Dean could demand that Cas clarify if he was looking at an actual sparrow, a statue of a sparrow, or a mountain named Sparrow—it was Cas, after all—Sam looked up from the laptop with a short nod.

_Got it._

“Cas? Cas.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Sit tight, alright? Don’t go too far so we can find you when we get there.”

******

Sam was already picking up his things, talking as he swept his gear into his bag.

“They’re in Heber Springs, on Greers Ferry Lake. That’s in Arkansas. The MegaMart’s near the lakefront. It’s about 9 hours—we can probably make it in 6.”

Dean paced. Six steps to the end of the table, six steps back. He kept his eyes on the pattern of the floor tile, counting off his breaths. The rustling noise that was Sam packing stopped as Sam looked up into the tight set of his face.

“Or.”

Sam paused for a heartbeat, grave, before Sam went on.

“You go on ahead. I’ll bring the Impala and catch up with you there.”

His foot froze mid-step. Was Sam serious?

“You sure about that?”

Sam was looking down again, hunting around under the pile of books and papers for something.

He glanced up and held still.

“Yeah, actually. I am.”

Right. It’d be faster this way.

“Here.” He fished Baby’s keys out of his pocket and threw them across. ”I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yeah.”

He turned to go.

“And Dean.”

He stopped and looked back at his brother.

“I’m sorry about Flagstaff.”

******

Cas was still standing by the side of the road with his phone out in one hand when Dean blinked in beside him.

“What the hell happened?”

“He’s gone after _this_.”

Zee’s voice approached from behind him. Dean gave a violent start and spun around, glaring at her because he hadn’t sensed anything, which, _of course, hex bag_ , and scowled. Somehow he’d forgotten how dead cool she could be, not batting an eye at the fact he was here where he shouldn’t be, a demon on her turf and trouble. She walked right past him towards Cas, ignoring him completely.

She put a candy bar in Cas’ hand and said curtly.

“Eat.”

Before he could open his mouth to ask _what the_ …she turned around and tossed a copy of the local rag at him, with the leading headline in bold. 

DISMEMBERED HUMAN REMAINS FOUND ON GOAT ISLAND.

Under which was:

SEARCH FOR MISSING 5 YEAR OLD CONTINUES.

“ _He’s HUNTING?_ ”

What the _hell_ had they been doing? What was the kid _thinking_? He glanced at the headlines again. Scratch that. He knew what the kid was thinking. 

“How does he even know how to work a case? How does he even read the paper?!”

“It was on the news last night.”

“ _The news_? You let him watch the _news_?”

Mistake number one. It was something he had figured out fairly early in the babysitting game—put up with as many Thunder Cats or Scooby Doo reruns as it took, but never, ever, _ever_ , let the TV go to the news while Sam was awake, because Sam was precocious. When Dad was gone, Sam’s nine million questions worried at every accident, every bear sighting and every serial killer within the lower 48. The news was just bad news.

An icy glare came his way. _Not helping._

Dean scanned the newspaper in his hand.

"Zombies?”

“Doesn’t fit.”

“Hold up. Why’d he take off on his own? Why didn’t he talk to you about it?”

She glanced away, out towards the horizon, her lips making an unhappy flat line.

“He’s trying to prove he can keep up.”

Ignoring what had to be a confused look on his face, she headed off towards the lake, her steps sharp and impatient, scanning the shoreline as she went. He caught up to her as Cas trailed along behind them, glancing around at the neighboring houses as if he might spot Toby behind a bush like a lost dog. Zee’s voice was clipped when she continued.

“He doesn’t want to go live in Wyoming.”

“You’re packing the kid off?”

Dean growled the question, unable to keep out stiff disapproval. He’d thought…well, what the hell had he thought? She was so protective of the kid; he’d just assumed…what? They’d stay together the way Dad had schlepped him and Sam everywhere? She’d raise the kid in the life, which—yeah, great idea, Dean, because that always ended _so_ well. And he could just see what would have clicked through Toby’s head, trying to hang on to the only stable thing in his messed-up universe, _her_ , thinking the only way to do that, the only way to avoid being left behind, was to show he could do the job.

Fuck.

“ _Why?_ ”

“He’s safer away from me.”

He opened his mouth to ask why, then shut it again when she took off down the street, checking behind each lakefront house for private docks. He frowned and turned to Cas. 

“Cas, can’t you just, _sense_ him?”

“I’m afraid not. I warded him against angels.”

“You _WHAT_?”

“It seemed prudent at the time, considering we were on the run from the Fallen.” Cas replied testily.

Dean rubbed at his forehead. He should have known this was going to turn into a grade A cluster.

“The rib carving?”

Cas nodded.

_Son. Of. A. Bitch._

His headache kicked in for real. He wanted Sam, and Sam’s voice of sanity. He looked at the tangled mess before him, and circled back to the one thing that just wasn’t making any sense. He stopped her as she turned away from her inspection of the lakeshore, heading back towards the parking lot and her car.

“ _Why_ is he safer away from you?”

“Dean.” Cas interrupted, weariness and defeat heavy in his voice, fiddling with the chocolate bar in his hand. “I couldn’t ward them both. I don’t have enough grace.”

He looked sharply at Cas, the gray grimness of Cas’ face. And then it was easier just to _see._ The things Cas wasn’t saying, the dimness of his light, the pain and the guilt crushing it, the small huddle of angel in his beaten-up trench coat, phantom wings wrapped protectively around himself, trying to ward off the ever-pressing cold.

_Shit._

“Cas, can’t you just,” he looked skyward. “recharge?”

Cas looked away with a downturn of his lips.

“Noah offered, when Heaven fell. I didn’t take him up on it.”

_Penance. Penance like Sam taking Death’s hand._ With a snap Dean turned and stepped away, staring grimly at his own reflection in the window of a beat up Corolla, his right fist clenching with vicious force. He wanted badly to put that fist through the glass, to feel it shatter, to shatter something, this pattern of his life, everyone falling away like ghosts to the road, while somehow he kept on keeping on.

Cas came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Dean, it’s time. Maybe it has been time for a long time.”

Dean kept his head bowed and his face taut, keeping an eye out for the shadow that was Death, dogging his every step, reaping everyone he knew. He looked out past the quiet street, out past the low buildings and parked cars, out past the blue haze of the mountains lying dimly on the far side of the lake. Another day, another town, and it looked like earth, it did.

But it was hell. It had to be.

Crowley had taken a page from Heaven’s book. Added a little flair.

Re-runs. A collection of Dean Winchester’s greatest _hits_ , standing here, while everyone around him dropped like flies.

He shook his head once, because this was not happening.

“Dean.”

“ _No._ ”

Cas turned his eyes skyward, listening to angel radio, whatever the angels were yakking about up there. With a shiver Cas drew the rumpled trench coat tighter around himself.

“Dean.”

“Save the speech, Cas. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Dean.”

He fisted his hand tighter, because this was the story of his life.

“Back at that Gas-n-Sip you worked at.” He curled his lip. “I should have left you out of it, _Steve_. You could have stayed human.”

Cas’ eyes narrowed belligerently.

“Dean, it’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? Everything I touch, every…” He broke off, and tucked his hands closer to his sides. “I can’t keep doing this, Cas.” 

_Loss and loss and loss. I can’t, Cas. Please don’t make me._

Cas glanced down at the chocolate bar in his hand like there might be instructions in the wrapper. After staring at it for a full, unmoving, minute, Cas heaved a long and mildly bitchy sigh, then started unwrapping the foil. “Alright.”

That was all he needed.

“Right. Let’s get you under some cover first.” He turned to Zee. “Your place warded up?”

Her nod was distracted and curt.

“Then take him, and _stay_. Sam’s on the way, and I’ll keep looking for the kid.”

Before she could start in with the arguing, he snapped at her.

“The two of you are a flaming beacon, sister. Last thing we need right now is the god squad on our ass.”

The flaming beacon glared at him. If looks could singe, his eyebrows would be history.

But, yeah, she hated it when he was right. How’s that for a change?

******

There were no goats on Goat Island. There wasn’t much else, either. No zombies, no demons, no angels, no kid. He trekked around the damned scrap of land twice to be sure, casting out with all his senses, and got bubkes.

“Hey.”

Sam’s voice over the phone was a lifeline. 

“Where you at?”

“Almost at the border. You figure out what’s going on?”

“He’s _hunting_.”

“Who? _Cas_?”

“No. Toby. They let him watch the news.”

He could just see the face Sam would be making. Sam skipped ahead to the crucial parts.

“Actual case?”

Dean pursed his lips tensely. He couldn’t sense anything. Not here, not in the vicinity. If it was zombies, they’d be the amped-up kind, like _Mother_. Except. Zee had said the pattern didn’t fit, and he was inclined to agree.

“Doesn’t fit. Coroner’s report said the parts that were found were severed, like cut with a saw. Not chewed on.”

Toby wouldn’t have had the experience to know. Toby saw monsters everywhere. And there were, but some of them were just the human kind.

Sam mulled that over.

"Where do you need me?”

“Check in on Cas, will ya? I’m going to retrace their steps, see if I can pick up where the kid split.”

“Right. Will do. Keep me posted.”

“Yep.”

******

The Durango was already back in the MegaMart lot by the time Dean got back there. He wasn’t entirely surprised. His life was rife with people inherently incapable of following clear instructions, so why would she be any different?

He glanced around the parking lot, looking for the security cameras, to see what angles they covered, before feeling in his jacket pocket for his badge. It’d been a while since he’d used it, but like habit, he kept it in his pocket—just in case. As he approached the store’s entrance, Zee came walking out, alone.

She pointed towards the lakeshore.

“Toby went that way. By himself.”

Before he could raise his voice to holler, she pre-empted him, her eyes narrowing with challenge.

“Cas is stashed, extra cans of spray paint. I fed him some key lime pie; it should hold him for a while.” She held up a finger when he opened his mouth. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know why it works. It works.”

_They needed food._

She kept moving, side-stepping an oncoming shopping cart and the family of four behind it, heading out to her car, ready to blow right by him like he wasn’t even there, ticking off to the next imperiled item on her list, self-preservation be damned. Dean grit his teeth again, because Cas was bad enough by himself, and the last thing he needed was another loose screw rattling around when he was already trying to look three directions at once. She flicked a cool look his way— _doing this with or without you_ —crystal in the stubborn set of her mouth.

Awesome.

Swallowing the swear words fizzing on his tongue, he fell in beside her.

“Kid lose his phone?”

“Found it in the back seat. Not sure if he ditched it or dropped it.” She said curtly. “He’ll try to get out to the island. There’s a fishing spot between Goat Island and Scout Island, but not a whole lot of people go out in the winter, so he’ll probably have to wait until the morning to find someone.”

“How far from here to the nearest marina?”

The corners of her mouth twitched down unhappily.

“He’ll have to hitch a ride.”

Fuck.

She slanted a look his way, the same dread thought on her mind.

Monster monsters weren’t the only monsters out there.

******

The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the third marina in the area. He stared with despair at the long line of bobbing boats moored on both sides of the dock.

“How many more of these are there?”

He growled the question, eying the encroaching dusk.

“Three.” Zee answered shortly; looking out over the big boats and little boats piled high to the wazoo. It took forever to search the boats one-by-one, forever to account for the ones that were not in their slips, forever to drive from one place to the next. It took forever to ask questions about a kid they didn’t even have a picture of to show to people.

He was turning towards the boat closest to him when she moved abruptly away from him, bending down to fish something out from between the dock’s wooden planks. Something small that fit in the palm of her hand. Her fingers wrapped protectively around it, hiding it from him, but he had a pretty good idea what it was anyway.

A hex bag.

Toby’s hex bag, to be exact. The one that kept him invisible to all demons.

It would be the fastest way.

He had never done it before, picked one human soul out from the noise of all the others, but now that he thought about it, he knew how, easy as pie. 

The sun was nestling into the mountains, the waters darkening with the sky, last light painting the clouds blood red and burnt orange. They couldn’t do three more of these before darkness fell. He looked down the line of boats and thought of the kid out there, a sitting duck for all the things he’d heard of or read about, their kind of thing or just _people_ doing crap. He shifted where he stood. He’d be fine. It was just a little power, nothing big, nothing game changing, nothing to worry about. He could handle it; the faster way. Sammy must have thought so, or Sam would’ve never let him out of his sight.

Zee glanced up when he moved, catching on to his impatience. 

She was a hunter. He shouldn’t need to explain.

It took another second. Something dangerously like regret flickered through those whiskey eyes before she straightened up. She held out her hand to show him the small leather pouch, charred with a symbol that protected the bearer from evil things like him.

“Go. I’ll wait here.”

She said it evenly, like it was no big thing, like it was a normal thing, when it was the last thing from normal, to be working with demons and running from angels. It was his world, and it should have stayed his world, except they had somehow gotten swept up into it. He could see in her eyes the reluctance and the distaste, because he’d been there, done that, every time he’d had to cut a deal with Crowley and all the others—but the demon you knew was still better than whatever might be out there.

He took a step away because he didn’t want her to watch him go all black-eyed.

Then he went to work.

******

She walked restlessly to the edge of the dock and back, scouring the boats for any sign of motion. She shouldn’t have asked. She should have gone with him. They should have done things the long way, the hard way, the tedious, time-consuming way. 

The human way.

She seemed to be making a habit of it, asking him to look after Toby, asking him to do the impossible, to draw on the power of the demon but not succumb to it, to go stand on the edge of the cliff and not go over. 

She shouldn’t have asked.

Her fingers closed around the hex bag in her hand. A bit of bone, a bit of feather; tansy, marigold and nemesia; wormwood soaked in holy water then dried on sacred ground—strong magic, strong enough to have protected Toby from any denizen of hell short of Lucifer himself, and Toby had angel warding for that besides. But it wasn’t strong enough to protect him from the zombies, the shifters, the werewolves and the vamps, or any other predator that walked on two legs with a smile.

The marina’s lights clicked on behind her as dusk drew out the shadows. She scoured the length of the dock for any signs of motion, trying not to pace. Her cell phone rang.

Sam.

Her finger paused over the screen uncertainly. Sam’s first call should have been to his brother. This call…she looked out at the boats again.

“Yeah.”

“Zee. What’s going on? I tried Dean’s cell, but he must have it off. Is he there with you?”

She paused. She knew how Sam felt about Dean using his powers.

“Yes. Sort of.”

There was a deadly silence. Sam’s normally easy going voice was lethally measured when he spoke again.

“What do you mean?”

“Toby dropped his hex bag. Dean’s gone to find him.”

She left Sam to read between the lines. The phone went quiet again.

“Where are you?”

“Dodson’s Marina.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

******

If he hadn’t been roasted by worry, Dean would almost have been proud of the kid. The boat Toby had chosen was tied off by itself, only a faint trace of scent left where the kid had unwound part of the rope so the boat drifted out enough to make it a hefty jump from the dock. Nothing could get on the boat without rocking it. Well, nothing except the really powerful monsters.

Like him.

He teleported himself just outside the boat’s main cabin and checked the color of his eyes in a shiny strip of chrome before peering into the dim darkness of the small space. Toby was curled up asleep on a padded bench. Squiggly angel warding had been chalked onto the walls and the portholes, the lines wobblier than normal where Toby had to stretch up on his tiptoes to draw the tops. They’d have to teach the kid demon warding, someday, once he got over his AWOL tendencies. Dean ducked under the low threshold, one careful step.

The wood floor made a loud squeak under his weight.

Toby jerked awake. The kid sat up and turned in one motion, the icy flash of an angel blade tight in his right hand, his left hand shooting out to grab a bottle of holy water sitting on the ledge. Toby swung the bottle, sending a stream of liquid arcing out in his direction, over a line of salt that ran the length of the cabin’s wooden floor.

A snarl rose involuntarily in his throat. Dean jumped back, his right hand fisting and flexing. 

_Shit, shit, shit._

He inhaled hard, sucking down air. He had to calm the hell down. He closed his eyes and kept them closed, one hand braced on the wall behind him, and counted his breaths. When he hit ten he opened his eyes and looked cautiously at the shadows, not writhing or too clear like he was still seeing in the dark, and hastily reassessed his approach, eying the gleaming silver weapon in Toby’s hand.

Where the _hell_ had the kid gotten that?

“Whoa. Whoa there, tiger. Easy. Easy. It’s just me.”

Blue eyes sharp and bright in the dimly lit cabin stared at him suspiciously.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, kid, it’s me.”

“Really you?”

“Really me.”

Toby looked him over again, not letting go of the holy water.

“How do I know you’re not a zombie? Like _Mother_?”

He held the kid’s stern gaze even as his lips twisted. Varying degrees of the undead, some better than others—was there a test for that?

“Alright, hold up. Zombies bleed green-black, right?”

Toby nodded.

“Well, then. Here goes nothing.”

He pulled his knife and cut a thin line on his forearm. A faint trickle of red ran down his arm, slower and fainter than it would have had he been human. It didn’t hurt at all. He held out his arm for the kid to see.

Toby leaned forward but stayed behind his salt line.

“And you’re you?”

Was he? What did that even mean any more?

He settled back on his haunches. “I suppose so. For now, anyway.”

Perhaps because it was the bare-naked truth, the hard grip Toby had on the angel blade eased slightly. Keeping an eye on the kid’s weapon, Dean leaned back against the wall behind him.

“What were you thinking, going off like that, Toby?”

“They’re here. They’ve taken a kid. Like me.”

“And it’s your job now? To save that other kid? Why didn’t you ask Zee? Or Cas?”

Lower lip pushed into the upper as Toby made something like a frowning pout.

“Cas isn’t well. And Zee can’t come. It’s not safe for her. But I’m covered. I can do it.”

Dean eyed the way Toby was holding the angel blade again, no longer the unsteady, unstable grip the kid had once used on the First Blade, but sure and tight, like he’d been practicing.

“I’m sure, kid. But that was to look out for yourself. Not to go _hunting_. Especially not on your own.”

Toby’s mouth puckered and set.

“What difference does it make? Zee is going to send me away anyway.”

“She’s trying to get you someplace safe, kid. Cut her some slack.”

“I won’t get in her way. I can help.”

Was this what it was like, through the looking glass, on the flip side of the coin? He looked at the kid standing there, angel blade and holy water one in each hand, grim determination in those baby blue eyes. He thought of the time Bobby had all but shoved a baseball and mitt into his hands, and growled at him that he was going to learn to play catch like every other snot-nosed kid or else. He’d left that ball and that mitt back at Bobby’s – burned to a crisp now, gone to ash with all the rest of the things he hadn’t been able to save.

He crossed the small cabin and sat down on the opposite bench, putting his elbows on his knees, and examined the sigils Toby had scrawled onto the walls.

“They’re not half bad.”

Toby’s mouth quirked.

“I’m still missing one.”

Without looking, Dean knew which that was. The blood sigil.

With a weary sigh he rubbed his forehead, and met Toby’s determined eyes.

“Look, kid. This life ain’t easy. Hunting. What keeps us going is knowing the things we care about are safe.”

Toby stared fixedly at him, his chin set at a stubborn tilt.

“I’m not going to tell you you’ll understand when you’re older. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. I’m not saying you can’t keep up, because you’re probably as good as I was when I was your age. But I am saying we’re all going to worry, Zee, me, Sam and Cas—and that’s a distraction we can’t afford. If there’s any chance at all we can find a way to keep you safe, we jump at it. You get that?”

The kid didn’t answer, searching his face with that burning blue gaze, one hand over his chest, unconsciously tapping, tapping, on the dog tags beneath his shirt.

“I don’t care.” Toby’s said abruptly, his tapping fingers momentarily still, resting on the small metal discs over his heart. “If she leaves, she won’t come back. You all promise to, but _no one ever comes back_.”

Dean stared at the whorls in the wood flooring by his feet. What was he going to say to that? 

Toby went on.

“I can learn. I’ll keep up.”

Dean shut his eyes tight against the wash of _feeling_ , because he didn’t want it, cramping the space in his chest, crowding his dead heart. All those times he had watched the tail end of the Impala pull away, wanting and waiting for the day when he was old enough, good enough, to go with Dad on a hunt, just so he would know, all those hours when the phone sat silent and all the times going straight to voicemail, the haunting weight of not knowing eating away at the bottom of his pretend-carefree days; he knew. He _got_ it.

But it wasn’t the answer.

This thing they were embroiled in, not just the life, but angels after them, ripping apart Heaven, looking to empty Hell, there was no place for a kid in it. When she had ganked the angel back at the Gas-n-Sip, saving him from Arkas, Zee had tipped her hand. He didn’t understand why she did it, when she could have just stayed clear, but it was done.

It was just the way the cards fell.

His eyes flicked open with the intensity of the words vibrating in him, his voice too harsh and too rough for an eight year old’s ears.

“Then you _learn_. You learn to be as fast and as good as you can get. But you learn all that someplace where we don’t worry about you. You learn that someplace safe where we _can_ come back to you. That’s the only way this will work, Toby. The angels won’t care. The demons and the vampires and the zombies, they won’t care. But we will. And you _will_ slow us down. But you learn, and when you’re good enough, fast enough, you come help us.”

The kid didn’t flinch. Toby stood straight and still, looking right at him, eyes clear and sharp and assessing. Not a child. Not anymore.

“Promise?”

Dean held out his hand and the kid took it.

“Promise.”

******

He kept one hand on Toby's shoulder as they walked down the long run of dock towards Zee, Toby's backpack bumping awkwardly where the kid had slung it over one shoulder. Had she been Lisa, hell, had she been anyone else, there would have been tears and outstretched arms and scolding and joy. But she wasn't Lisa, and Toby wasn't Ben, and it was like watching mirror expressionless images approach each other until she knelt and Toby ran, throwing his arms around her neck and just holding on. 

It shouldn't have surprised him--it didn't--that Toby's outburst lasted only a minute. Toby straightened up quickly, set his shoulders, one last little bit of childhood in his pained squint, squaring himself up to be grounded from now until the end of time, which Dean had to admit, _was_ a tempting thought if they could have pulled it off.

And it shouldn’t have surprised him either that Zee still said nothing. She simply took Toby's cell phone out of her pocket and handed it to the kid.

"Here."

Toby reached out for the phone, but she hung on to it for a second, catching Toby’s eye.

"Don't lose it again, yeah?"

The boy paused, looking back at her solemnly.

"'K."

"Alright."

She let go of the phone and stood. Toby pocketed the phone carefully, looked up at her, and tucked his hand into hers.

And that was that.

******

The thing about powers was, once you turned them on, it wasn’t exactly straightforward to turn them off again. As they walked back towards land and into the marina’s largely empty parking lot, Dean suddenly flinched, shying away from an inward rush of voices pressing hard on his _not-_ ears—not _voices_ voices, but the noise of souls. Chittering and chittering like a swarm of bugs thick across the landscape, the Mark on his arm flaring in response.

_Gray things_. _Gray things_. _Some so very nearly black anyway, so close, may as well reach out and take them now, before they could do any more harm, before they hurt anyone else._

_Tick tock, time’s up, time’s up; got a job to do._

Zee flicked a sharp look at him when he stepped back, edging towards the water again, as if that would keep out the overwhelming babble.

“You okay?”

He focused in on her voice and her face. He couldn’t sense her at all, not even a peep of a thought. _Hell of a hex bag_ , whatever she put in it. Without meaning to he moved closer, needing that silence. She tensed but held still, looking intently into his face, seeing God knows what—the demon, maybe, the red hot itch on his arm, _whispering_ , _whispering_ , and maybe she should be reaching for her angel blade instead of just staring at him. He took a deep breath when she gripped Toby’s hand tighter, and held her ground instead of moving back.

In the distance came the low rumbling approach of Baby’s engine. Finally. The Impala’s headlights played over them as Sam cruised slowly to a stop. He latched on to his brother’s soothing presence, stepping back with one long exhale. The grimness in Sam’s face eased as he checked the three of them over, all still there, all still in one piece and no weapons showing, then went back over him again carefully, like a third horn might have erupted on his forehead, or he’d gotten Pinocchio’s nose. 

Which would suck, because truth was really not his forte.

He’d just given a curt nod to Sam, code for all clear—when suddenly the bright flare of an angel’s presence lit up the night like a beacon, way across on the far lakeshore. He must have tensed, because he hadn’t so much as moved when they both reacted, Sam out of the car looking for something to point his gun at and Zee shoving Toby protectively between them, one hand reaching into her jacket for her angel blade.

“What?!” Sam demanded, turning in circles and finding nothing but asphalt and leaves.

“ _Angel_.”

He snarled the word, staring out across the water, across a distance that human eyes had no business seeing. His whole being bunched, preparing to teleport.

Zee followed the direction of his glance. 

“DEAN, NO!”

She barked at him, the sharp _order_ of it eliciting his reflexive halt, long enough she was able to get a grip on his arm and stare straight up into his black eyes.

“Devil’s trap.”

He sucked in air as her fingers tightened on his arm, the First Blade in his hand, the world swimming beneath his feet with anxiety, because they needed to get to Cas, now and yestereday already, and _of course_ her place would be rigged with a devil’s trap.

Sam came up beside him, still looking around on high alert, waiting for an explanation.

“ _Cas_.”

He moved towards the Impala. The motor was still running and the car door open. Without needing more Sam went around to the passenger side and Zee hustled Toby into the Durango, slammed into the driver’s seat of the SUV, and pulled on out ahead.


	41. Heavy is the Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Zac Brown Band.

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Being able to find people.”

Out of the corner of his eye Dean glanced at Sam, checking to see how pissy Sam was going to be about this new power, but Sam was surprisingly calm.

Huh.

“Loud.”

It was better when Sam was around. He could focus on Sam, and shut the other stuff out.

“And you need a new hex bag.”

“What?”

“I can see through that one.”

Sam blinked. “Seriously? I thought this was the strongest one we knew how to make.”

“Better check the Letters library, then. Cuz it leaks.”

“Huh.”

Sam went back to looking in the side mirror for lights and sirens. They were doing 80 on a 45 road, following the Durango ahead doing the same. He kept a lead foot on the gas and a death grip on the steering wheel. The brief flare that was an angel showing himself had disappeared, and Cas was somehow invisible, so he had to assume Zee had demon warding on her hideout in addition to the angel warding Cas would have put up.

Swell.

The SUV turned off sharply into the dark up ahead. Dean squinted. There was a track, of sorts. He took Baby off road carefully, relieved when her wheels hit gravel and not scrubby brush. He’d been on some of the things Zee considered road, and they were not road. They were goat tracks.

“It’s well hidden.” Sam offered.

Dean grunted, keeping his eyes on the narrow path cut into the side of a cliff as the Durango moved confidently ahead, not slowing enough for the blind turns, winding around the edge of the lake, kicking up gravel the whole way. He dropped back a little to avoid the spray, and focused on not driving off into the lake on his left.

At last a faint glow showed in the night ahead. The track widened out into a ledge, gold light spilling out from the small house perched on one edge. The SUV pulled to a stop next to a Vespa parked crookedly on the gravel. Dean slammed out of the Impala even as Zee popped out of the SUV, one hand up to stop him, twenty feet away from the house. What the hell? There was nothing here but open sky and empty ground, and he could see in the dark just as well as the day, and he didn’t see any trap. He took a step forward and she got in his way again, warning in her eyes.

The front door of the house opened, lighting up the night. A vaguely familiar blue suit stepped out, three days scruffy and sorely in need of a shave, with Cas right behind him, saying “Wait, Dean. Wait. It’s okay. It’s just Inias.”

“In… _who?_ ”

“Inias.” Cas repeated. “From my old garrison.”

“I thought they were all dead.”

“How’d he find you?”

Zee’s question overlapped his words, glancing sharply at the still intact sigils decorating the house. Inias darted a guilty look at Zee before Cas spoke firmly.

“Inias found me, and I asked the others to come.”

“Others? What _others?_ ”

“Cas, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Dammit, Cas!”

The three of them spoke all over each other. Zee pivoted around, scanning the darkness around the house, and Sam kept talking. Dean kept swearing, because he should have known better than to leave Cas alone, even for a few minutes, because Cas _would_ jump straight from _I-must-do-my-penance_ to _I-must-save-the-world_ with some cockamamie, half thought out scheme that was bound to end in a tangled mess of backfired good intentions and tears.

Cas stared right back at him, chin thrust out at a stubborn angle.

“I can hear them, Dean. The others. They need help.”

Angels. Stuck on the earth, heaven a mess, and why did Cas even keep giving a damn, considering how every one of those douchebags had treated him?

A sudden gust of wind blew through the trees, trembling the bare branches. Zee tensed, looking at him, then up at the relative safety of the house. Her lips compressed into a thin line, coming to a decision.

“We need to get inside. Cas, can you?”

Cas’ eyebrows rose, before Cas nodded. Cas looked at Inias and gestured towards the ground. Scruffy looked at him, suspicious, like he wasn’t at all sure whatever Cas was asking him to do was a good idea, but he raised his hand anyway and made a twisting gesture at the ground between them and the house.

What the…?

Without warning, the earth shuddered under their feet. The ground cracked open, dirt spitting up out of a short trench maybe a foot wide and a foot deep right in front of him. Dean hopped back, an equally startled Sam moving with him, as the sod continued to crumble. There was something in the hole, a dull gleam that was not dirt, something solid and metal that ran along the bottom of the trench. Dean squinted and Sam inhaled when they finally made out what it was—an iron bar, as thick as his wrist, with a faint arc to it like it was part of a very large circle.

_Devil’s trap_.

Not some piddly-wink devil’s trap painted under the front runner or scratched into wood beneath a welcome mat, but a freakin’ huge, damned near unbreakable, _forged-from-iron_ devil’s trap, buried a foot under the house, the outer circle running completely around the small structure.

A second gesture from Inias fractured the thick iron bar.

Sam moved wordlessly closer. As if Sam needed to be reminded of who they were dealing with here—a hunter—and more than that, someone who’d tangled with enough demons to build a trap like that under her safe house.

_Shit_.

Zee stepped calmly away from his side and over the newly opened trench, disregarding his suspicious study of her back, trying to suss out _why_ she had demon Defcon I going. She headed over to the car for Toby, who had been sitting with his nose pressed to the window of the SUV. The kid got out at her curt gesture and she nudged him towards Cas, who had stopped in the doorway to wait.

Sam fidgeted behind him.

“Dean.” Sam said in a low voice, looking at the jagged edges of iron in the ground.

“I know.”

The house up ahead was going to be a minefield. He caught the ninja’s eye across the distance of the yard, trying to gauge if she was going to change her mind halfway through and stick his ass in a trap anyway. She hadn’t so far, but. Her expression didn’t change, calm and cool again, waiting to see what he’d do.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

She had to break two more traps to let him in, one on each side of the front door. Sam bumped up against him as he came to a stop just inside the threshold. Reflexively they both glanced at the ceiling, just in case. She followed their head movements, looking at the exposed rafters high above. Her eyebrow quirked up—a wordless _obvious, much_? suggesting she had traps set someplace else.

_Shit._

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

He jumped a little when Inias closed the door behind them, keeping his eyes on Zee. This was not your run-of-the-mill setup, even by hunter standards. Warily he looked around at the brightly lit living area, taking care to stay exactly where he was.

The feeling of openness and light in the house surprised him. He was expecting a fortress, more wall and less glass, more iron and less wood. But instead the whole side of the house facing the lake was glass, lamp light tumbling out onto a wide deck that extended out over the dark water below. Skylights punctured the roof, and enormous, indefensible picture windows looked out the landward side of the house, so that come the day, the place would flood with sunlight. Sigils had been painted over everything now, streaks of red and white curling around and over the demon wards etched into the woodwork.

Cas followed Inias to where he stood by one of those wards, speaking in a low voice.

“We should tell them. They can help.”

nias glanced at him suspiciously. “Castiel. He’s a _demon_.”

“It’s Dean Winchester, Inias. He’s a friend.”

Inias flicked him another glance. _Bright_ , this time, the heat of grace behind it, and _searching_ , like Inias was _seeing_ him. He fidgeted under the scrutiny, his horns and his scales, the things beneath his skin, the blood on his hands.

“Well?” He demanded. “Are we doing this, or not?”

Inias’ gaze dropped to his arm, where the Mark lay branded into his skin. Scruffy Angel turned back to Cas with reluctance. “He might be useful.”

Dean scowled.

“What do you mean, _useful_?” Sam demanded belligerently from behind him. “I remember the last time we were ‘useful’.”

“That’s not what he means, Sam.” Cas said slowly, looking both thoughtful and disturbed. “What Inias is trying to say, is that as far as we know, Dean’s the only one who has been able to take down one of the Two Hundred. The Original Fallen _._ Arkas.” Cas explained, to their questioning looks. “We were powerless against them. Hannah, Noah, all of us. When the Fallen took Heaven, it was like the power of Heaven was no longer in our hands. It was in theirs.”

“Metatron made a mistake,” Inias added, “when he opened the Book. He should have known better.”

“The Book?” Sam asked.

“The Book of Life. It’s how Metatron closed the gates of Heaven. When the Book of Life is opened, he set off the Day of Judgment. The gates of heaven are closed, and the dead rise from their graves. It is written that Hope shall shepherd the dead unto judgment, and cause a new Heaven to be created on earth.” Inias stopped in his recital and crossed the room to stare out a window. “If Metatron still had the angel tablet, maybe he could have dealt with Ramiel, but without it…” Inias shook his head. “Ramiel is free to do what he wants.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, back it up _._ Heaven’s raising the dead?”

“Ramiel is.” Inias said slowly, as if he were late to the party and slow on the uptake. “He’s the archangel of Hope. What did you think you’ve been dealing with? The Fallen have been preparing the ground for their new Heaven. They’re…” Inias paused, as if it pained him to say the next words, “taking the souls from the Veil and out of Heaven and returning them here.”

_Alfie._

_Dad._

Only they hadn’t been returned to _their_ bodies.

“They’re making the zombies.” Dean said. “They’re taking souls out of Heaven, but they’re stuffing them in the wrong meatsuits.”

“Yes.” Inias bowed his head.

“It’s the ultimate identity theft.” Dean whispered, the memory of Alfie’s confusion batting at him. “He wants to drive them _mad._ ”

Cas looked at him sharply. “Dean?”

“Alfie,” He said. “When they, put him in my head. Cas…he went— _insane._ ”

It was more than that. The edge of Alfie’s hunger, eternally ravenous and indiscriminate, gnawing relentlessly at the edges of his consciousness. Stalked by a hunger that couldn’t be sated, _ever_ , confused and angry, carving its way into his very being. Across the room Zee met his eyes gravely, knowing what he was remembering. She put an arm around Toby and drew the kid closer to her.

“When they come back, these souls, they’re not right. They’re all…” He made a frustrated gesture with one hand. “Pet Sematary.”

Inias and Cas exchanged a quick look.

“Each soul is unique.” Cas murmured. “If it were put back wrong, it would become restless. Empty. It would try to fill the void inside by eating, but it could never get enough. It would consume not just the flesh of its victims, but also…” Cas paused, looking pale, “… their essences. Like Crowley said--” Cas stared at him, “—bite into the power of the demon.”

“Not just demons.” Inias paced away from the window. “Human, monster, angel, it won’t matter. Nothing will be immune. They will eat up everything they can get their hands on, and absorb them. Until light becomes shadow, and everything blends to gray. ”

“And they’ll get stronger with each kill.” Cas finished. “They won’t ever stop, until they are the only kind on earth.”

******

“So.” Dean pursed his lips. “Zombie Apocalypse.”

Cas met his eyes gravely. “Zombie Apocalypse.” Cas agreed.

_Great._ Dean scowled.

“They’re sniffing around Hell, you know.”

Cas already knew this, but Inias blanched. Scruffy Angel went a paler shade of pale, and went back to worrying a rut around the room, fingers twitching nervously behind his back. Dean got that. It wasn’t a reach to see the Fallen would do to Hell what they were doing to Heaven, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. A soul from Hell was twisted enough to begin with—however it reacted to being back topside—it didn’t bear thinking about. He looked at the grim-eyed kid standing by the couch, following the conversation not well enough but too well anyway, and took a step forward.

“So? What are we going to do about it?”

Inias stopped in his tracks, and looked at him with surprise.

“We?” Inias said.

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“You just said I was useful. Unless you’ve changed your mind. So, what’s the plan?” 

Inias turned fully around and considered him. Dean glared, because, now was not the time for half-disclosures, but _angels._ It was their m.o.

Inias relented.

“We need to find the Book.”

“The Book? This Book of Life?”

“Yes.” Inias said, eyes darting back and forth between him and Cas, his mind clearly elsewhere. “The time of judgment ends—Ramiel’s time of power ends—if we can close the Book. We’re just not sure where Metatron stashed it.”

“And?” Sam prompted, because _friggin’ angels_. Even Dean could hear the half of the sentence Inias was leaving out, a buttload of _buts_ and _gotchas_ that always got buried in the fine print.

Inias bit his lips, troubled. “The Book shouldn’t have stayed open. Only God can open the Book of Life and keep it open. We think Metatron must have found a way.“ And here he darted a guilty look in Cas’ direction. “We think…”

Cas straightened, as if he were bracing for an axe to fall.

Inias winced at the pained expression on Cas’ face. “We think.” Inias continued apologetically, “…the only thing that can hold the Book open like this—it’s has to be something of God’s Will.” Inias swallowed. “That’s why we’ve been looking for you, Castiel. Because what better symbol of God’s will is there, than the grace of an angel that has died then come back to life? The thing that’s holding the Book open? It’s you, Cas. It’s your grace. We need you, alive, because you’re the only one who can take your grace back.”

******

The rest of Cas’ angels turned up an hour later in a minivan. A minivan, of all things.

“Soccer mom.” The blond Johanna said apologetically. “She was the best I could do, with all of us circling around, looking for vessels.”

Dean stared skeptically as Inias righted the Vespa and disengaged the brake. He held out a hand, blocking Cas at the door as the motley crew prepared to depart.

“Cas, you sure about this? They don’t look like they could outrun a school bus, let alone the Fallen.”

“Inias is a good soldier, Dean. Loyal. Eliam will be able to counteract the negative effects of Theo’s grace burning out for a while. I’ll be okay.”

There was that. They could only feed Cas so much pie and burger before something else popped loose.

“Just…be careful, okay?”

“You too.” Cas paused, hesitating. “Dean, about Hell.”

“Yeah, Cas. I know. I’ll make sure they don’t get that far.”

Cas frowned.

“I don’t think that’s all, Dean. There’s something more.”

“Isn’t there always?”

Cas grimaced. “True. Just…”

“I’ll be fine, Cas. Just find that damned book. We’ll figure the rest out from there.”


	42. Thick as Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from song by Shinedown.

The moon was high overhead when Sam joined him out on the deck. It was a dark, clear night and the stars were bright pinpoints in a velvet sky.

“You really think he can do it?”

“Empty heaven and hell? Not if we keep Crowley safe.”

God, did he really just say that?

Sam blanched. “God, did you really just say that?”

“I know. Feels like I should wash my mouth out with soap or something.”

“Dean, everyone we know. Mom and Dad. Bobby and Ellen and Jo. Ash. Pamela at the Meadowlands. I mean, everything …”

“Yeah.”

They fell silent, each staring out over the steel gray water. He wanted a beer, just for the habit of it. Back when they were little, they use to sit on the hood of the Impala on clear nights like this, looking up at the stars. He’d told Sammy lies about how Mom was up there watching over them, just so Sam would sleep easy at night. Making stuff up, whole hog, and somewhere in there, somehow, Sam had bought into his bullshit and believed. Heaven and Hell, good and evil, right and wrong.

Most of the time he tried not to overthink things. He had a job and he did it, figuring what would come later would come later, and in his case, he knew what was coming anyway. And he was fine with that, so long as he knew Sam was okay, even if Sam’s ideas of heaven were seriously whack.

But what was happening now—asshat angels ripping souls out of their private paradises, tearing up the natural order—that was a whole new level of wrong. To turn into something like Alfie, six serious fries short of a happy meal, clawing and clawing and crazy ravenous from now until the end of time-- 

That was _not_ okay.

It was quiet inside the house. Sam had left a light on before he came outside, and the warm glow spilled out onto the wide deck. Zee had cleared parts of the house so he could move around, with an unfathomable look, as if she were weighing pros and cons. 

_“You may as well stay.” She finally said, taking Toby by one hand._

He had grunted, because Toby looked hopeful, and they were as exposed as all hell. Who knew what Cas’ Scooby Crew might have tracked in on their way here. He hoped she wasn’t too fond of this house, because she had to know as well as he did that this location was well and truly burned.

“I don’t think this is her only house.” Sam offered into the silence.

“Huh?” Dean said, even though he kind of wanted to deny that was what he’d been thinking about, considering they had bigger problems. 

Sam stared thoughtfully out over the lake, watching the wake of moonlight on the water.

“Jake, a friend of mine from Stanford—his folks had a place like this. Not like this, like this, with the devil’s traps and all, but custom. You can kind of tell.”

Money. Loads of it. Like that samurai sword of hers, the real deal.

“Like Bela, you think?”

“Not getting that vibe. You?”

He shook his head. From what he remembered of Bela’s place, she liked her things. This was almost the opposite. Devil’s traps and warding aside, and she had an awful lot of them, Zee’s place was like her gear, stripped down to the essentials, all clean lines and smooth surfaces. There were none of the homey touches Lisa had imparted to the places they’d lived, no random magnets on the fridge, no souvenir mugs from that trip to Seattle, no photos, not even stray toiletries in the bathroom. It may not have been her _home_ home, but he had a sneaking suspicion if she had more houses, they were all like this. Rufus had backup cabins dotted here and there, but they were all distinctly Rufus-like, the way all of Bobby’s stashes and lockups always had a barely-constrained-chaos air to them.

“That’s some serious demon warding she’s got going on, though.” Sam added quietly.

There was that. The iron devil’s trap under the house was something else. If she hadn’t stopped him from teleporting to Cas, he would have been well and truly stuck, short a blowtorch and a few hours time, that’s even assuming he knew where to look.

Sam fidgeted. “Dean.”

“If she wanted to do something, Sam, she’d have done it by now.”

“Yeah, I guess. Unless she’s waiting for something.”

“What? Angels? Opportunity? Bit been there, done that, don’t you think?”

Sam shrugged helplessly.

He slid a sideways look at Sam’s profile, where Sam was still worrying with a frown. This was always the downside to Sam’s grand plans, but now, like it or not, they were in for the ride. He didn’t know, what she had planned, what she was going to do. She wasn’t foolish. She left the wards around the bedroom whole, taking nothing for granted, because the lesser of two evils was still evil. At best she was just keeping him around for the Mark on his arm, the Blade in his hand, to look out for Toby until she could get the kid stashed at whatever Bobby or Pastor Jim equivalent she had in mind. 

That was all it was.

******

The day had dawned cool and misty, thin fog drifting over the lake surface in swirling wisps. Zee was packing up what little there was of Toby’s things.

“Maybe we should go with you.”

Sam looked over at Dean in shock. That was the last thing he expected to come out of Dean’s mouth. Zee glanced over at Dean.

“Hmm.”

It was neither agreement nor disagreement. 

Dean took the pack from Zee’s hands as she zipped it shut.

“Where are we headed?”

“Xavier’s.”

There was a half beat of silence.

“You’re sending him to _mutant_ school _?_ ”

Dean’s voice climbed on the last words. Sam wanted to bury his head in his hands, because Dean was _12_ , and he was _8_ , because that was the first thought that popped into his head as well. He coughed once.

Zee’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite not one.

“It’s sword school.” Toby supplied with the impatience of childhood, as if that should have been obvious to everyone. “I don’t have any _powers_. Duh.”

Sam swallowed his next cough forcibly.

“Um, so, where is sword school?”

“Cody. Wyoming.” 

Dean shot Zee another highly skeptical look before he beckoned to Toby.

“C’mon, kid. If it’s going to be wax-on-wax-off for you, we might as well practice on the way. The Impala could use some more touching up anyway.”


	43. Outshined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Soundgarden.

They had not gone more than two hours when the Durango ahead suddenly veered right.

Sam sat up.

“Pit stop?”

Dean shook his head and scanned the area around them tensely. Traffic was light out here. He checked the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, feeling around with his other senses. He heard Sam sucking in air as the world went gray-bright with demon sight, but he needed it. He remembered the _feel_ of Arkas—the gray ambiguousness of the Fallen’s grace—like trying to see a shadow in the dusk, tenuous and way too hazy. He scanned the interior of the car ahead.

Nothing.

Sam breathed again when he shifted back, and the world was normal colored again, green fields rolling out to either side as Zee turned off the highway. He glanced at the fuel gauge.

“We just fueled up an hour ago.” Sam pointed out needlessly.

Their confusion grew as they passed a fast food joint and a diner without stopping and took another right turn onto a quiet country lane, pulling up to a largely empty parking lot with a low rectangular building at the center, a metal awning shading a take-out window on one side.

Dean slammed out of the car, resisting the urge to skip the few steps and teleport right to the SUV, conscious of eyes watching them from the open window of the small structure.

“What is it? Angels? Demons?” He racked his brain for other things that could appear without warning. “Mutant Zombies?”

She flicked him a cool look as Toby clambered out of the car.

“Frozen custard.”

“What?”

“Ice cream.”

“We’re stopping for _ice cream?!_ ”

Her eyes narrowed when his voice shot up. “Yes.”

“It’s the middle of _freakin’ WINTER_!”

The temperature in her eyes dropped by a degree. She turned Toby towards the small building.

“Go on and see what you want. I’ll be there in a sec.”

The kid looked uncertainly up at the two of them, at the temper in their voices. With an effort Dean reined in his frustration, sweeping the surrounding fields and the interior of the small custard shop with his other senses once through before giving Toby a tight smile.

“Go on. I bet they have Rocky Road up there.”

Behind him he heard Sam getting out of the Impala, moving casually to flank Toby as the kid headed hesitantly to the ordering window. He only breathed again when Toby was within Sam’s reach.

He turned back to the impossible ninja in front of him and bit out the question that had been eating at him since the MegaMart.

“What part of _lockdown_ is so _friggin’_ hard to understand?”

Her look was ice.

“You’re warded. Sam’s warded. Toby’s warded. If the angels are looking, they’ll only see me.”

“ _AND_?”

Her eyes narrowed further like he was being deliberately dense.

“And what?”

He just stared at her, at that look in her eye, like she wasn’t a target, like she didn’t matter, like he wouldn’t come back for her, like when _Mother_ had her by the hair, knife to her neck, because ‘ _demons don’t do friends’_ and a hunter’s life was a matter of Russian roulette anyway.

He grit his teeth and growled.

“Inias found Cas, and _us_ —by tracking you. If he can figure it out, so can they.”

He could see her jaw set. She didn’t like it when he was right, but she wasn’t backing down. She stepped closer, lowering her voice so the kid wouldn’t hear, and Toby wouldn’t have heard anyway because she very nearly hissed.

“ _We are NOT driving straight through to Cody like he’s some hot potato we have to ditch._ ”

He took a step back. He looked over at the custard stand, one like many they had passed on the road before, and suddenly remembered out of nowhere, Dad’s set face bent over the wheel on their way to Bobby’s or Caleb’s or Pastor Jim’s.

_“Not now, Dean. Maybe next time.”_

Sam glanced their way, curious, before Sam turned his attention back to the menu like Sam was actually planning to get something. _Ice cream._

He looked at her and snapped.

“Fine.”

She stepped into his space again, searching his face to make sure he meant it, fully ready to ditch him in the next spot of traffic if he was going to keep being an ass. He could see the fire smoldering in her eyes, and he wondered how she knew it mattered. His eyes dropped to the curve of her lips, pursed and still ready to argue. 

_Not now, Dean._

He jammed his hands into his pockets, scowling. He was all too aware that Sam glanced their way again, keen eyes on the way they were standing, like a powder keg and a match. He didn’t look to see what _she_ was thinking, except she shot him a veiled side-eye before turning to go join Toby and Sam at the ordering window, trading off guard duty with Sam, who gave the menu a final considering look before heading back his way.

“So.” Sam said, settling in next to him as he leaned against the Impala. “We’re waiting?”

“Looks like.” He pursed his lips, because he still wasn’t _happy_ about it.

“Well. In that case.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“They have fro-yo.”

“Fro— _what_?”

“Fro-yo. Frozen yogurt.”

He examined his kid brother again, trying to remember if he’d accidentally left him too long at any other places besides Penny Pluckwhistle’s that would have scarred Sam into speaking Valley Girl. Failing to come up with anything except maybe Sam’s four unsupervised California years, he snuck a quick glance in Toby’s direction, at the heaping cup in the kid’s hand.

“At least tell me you didn’t ruin the kid.”

Sam sighed. “Nope. Whipped cream, chopped nuts, fudge sauce, artificial cherry on top.”

“Cherry’s the best part!”

Both of Sam’s eyebrows lodged themselves high on Sam’s forehead.

“Do you know how they make them?”

Seriously? Was nothing sacred to Sam? He held up a warning hand.

“Dude, don’t. Just don’t. Go away. Go order your fru-fro-yo-yo whatever and leave my cherries alone. I’ll just...” He sighed resignedly and settled back against the Impala. “…wait here.”

******

The Mystery Caverns and a petting zoo later, he was biting his tongue. Toby was biting his tongue too, tacking on his best enthusiastic smile, unwilling to do anything to hasten his delivery to Mr. Miyagi’s School of Mutants. Out of the corner of her eye Zee caught on, but she kept trying for “normal”, one random bumper car attraction after the other, attempting to hit a target of family friendly fun with the luck of a Bond villain toting a machine gun, no clue what an eight year old boy might normally be interested in besides waffles for breakfast and burgers for dinner.

“How on _earth_ is she finding these places?” 

He eyed the latest stop warily, moving closer to Sam, because it was one step above Plucky’s and he was going to have to apologize to Sam again, except Lucinda Carroll had been seriously…well built, and Sam really should understand.

His way-above-the-height-requirement brother pointed to a bright yellow sign on the window.

“App.”

The cheerful red block letters on the sticker read: “Five Stars from KidTrips.com!”

“We’re wandering around the midwest by _APP_?”

Several heads turned his way when his voice ratcheted up indignantly.

Sam gave him The Look, shuffling them towards and out the door, leaving Toby and Zee to deal with the incoming clutches of a clown.

“’fraid so, kemo sabe.”

Dean looked back through the glass door, at the arcades and video games, that once upon a time seemed like a good idea. If you were twelve and had no idea that monsters existed. She should know this, and maybe she did, but didn’t know how to course correct, because, as he stared at her harder and tried to imagine her letting her hair down and having actual _fun_ , he got precisely bubkes. 

He squinted against the high noon sunlight, pursed his lips, and looked thoughtfully east. There were other places—not necessarily marked ages 5-10 on whatever app she was using—and he’d bet a chicken dinner Toby would like them more.

“Dean.” Sam said warningly, catching the glint in his eye. “No. Not the ball of twine _again_.”

“Sam. _Clowns_.” He turned his brother forcibly around and made him look. Sam stiffened and wrenched away. “C’mon, Sammy. The two headed calf? Tiny shrunken human heads? Lynard Skynard? And not a clown anywhere, I promise. What do you say?”

******

“You want to go see what?”

“Two-headed calf.” Dean flashed her an impish smile. “And the tiny shrunken heads…”

“And Lynard Skynard’s playing there this week. We could maybe catch a show?” Sam sketched his brother a sideways glance, because yeah, a fascination with tiny shrunken heads was maybe not the best prescription for a healthy life outlook. 

Besides her Toby fidgeted, like Dean’s half-assed idea actually sounded more interesting than the video arcade behind them. _Reall_ y? In front of her, Sam’s expression was faintly apologetic; because Sam, she just discovered, had a clown phobia like nobody’s business, and obviously demonic Mary Poppins had been through this whole circus once before. She scowled and looked away, her glance falling on a stick figure family of four on the back of the nearest station wagon.

“Fine. We’ll try Branson.”


	44. Simple Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Lynard Skynard.

The World’s Largest Ball of Twine was smaller than he remembered.

He picked Toby up so the kid could see across the top of the big twine ball without craning his neck.

Toby squinted with concentration, and asked the question that Sam had asked years back.

“Why?”

Why did anyone make a giant wad of twine thirteen feet high? Who knew?

He set Toby down and shrugged. “Because they can? You should see the one in Kansas.”

Toby’s eyebrows shot up, like enormous twine balls were popping into existence all around him.

“The ball of string in Weston is more interesting.” Sam injected.

Dean felt his own eyebrows ratchet up before he glanced at Sam. “I thought you hated it.”

Sam looked away, eyes skimming over the world’s biggest cat toy in front of them, not directly answering. “The Weston one is more solid. Plus it’s made of pure mailing string, not twine,—so it’d take longer to make. And it’s dense enough to stop a bazooka round.”

When did Sam become a twine ball snob? It couldn’t be because he dragged Sam to see them all—the one in Darwin, the barbed wire balls, the giant yarn ball (musty), and of course the big mailing string ball, although they might have gone to that one a few extra times because it was in a pub and that waitress Chrissie was …

Sam coughed.

Dean glared at his brother, because he hadn’t been thinking out loud and it wasn’t his fault Sam could read his face.

Toby tugged on his hand, distracted by something across the way.

“They’ve got a vampire killing kit!”

He’d forgotten about that—and the way Toby _would_ fasten his attention on it. It wouldn’t work, anyway—the garlic and the wooden stakes, and before he had even finished thinking that, Zee said as much.

“That stuff won’t work. You have to cut their heads off. And you’re too short for that.”

Unfazed by the curt discouragement in her tone, Toby frowned.

“Then what do I do?”

_Run_ _and hide_ was on the tip of his tongue, when Sam’s voice cut in, flat.

“Dead man’s blood.”

_What the hell?_

He glared at Sam again. What was Sam doing? And Mr. Soccer-instead-of-bow-hunting stared right back at him, _the kid should know_.

Toby looked over at Sam, his attention caught, and Sam lectured on.

“Dead man’s blood. It’s like vamp poison. It won’t kill them, but it’ll make them very, very sick, and it’ll slow them down enough for you to get them.”

As Toby filed that away in his head Dean had to scramble to get his bearings. _WTF?_ Exactly when did Sam turn into Dad? Where was Toby going to get his hands on dead man’s blood anyway? He saw that exact question forming in the kid’s eyes, and before Toby could ask, Dean glanced around the room, looking for something, anything—

“Hey. Hey, come on. Let’s go have a look at that two-headed calf.”

******

Dean started in on him as soon as they got in the car.

“You want to explain yourself?”

“What?” Sam looked out the window, though he knew perfectly well what.

“ _Dead man’s blood._ ” Dean snapped. “ _It’ll slow them down enough so you can get them._ ” Dean mimicked his tone before yelling. “ _HE’S EIGHT,_ SAM _.”_

Sam glanced down at his hands, and said quietly, “We won’t always be there to look out for him, Dean. He’s going to need to know how to take care of himself.”

Dean gaped at him before Dean gave him a hard stare.

“He’s _eight_ , Sammy.” Dean repeated firmly, as if it meant something.

Sam glanced out the window again, at Branson’s passing main drag, before answering.

“Dad taught us how to shoot when we were seven.”

“WELL MAYBE DAD SHOULDN’T HAVE!!”

“ _You_ taught him how to shoot.”

“A SHOTGUN WITH ROCK SALT. SO HE COULD DEFEND HIMSELF!”

“ _And WHERE ALL do you think this is going, Dean?_ ” He snapped back. There was no periphery to the life, no clear edges. There was no half-in, half-out, and Dean knew it. They’d lost people because of it.

Dean glared at him.

“Look. It can’t hurt for him to know some stuff. I mean, he may never run into vampires. For all we know, he may quit the life when he grows up. But in the meantime,” Sam turned his hands over, staring at the veins standing out on the back of them. Veins that had throbbed with heat and grace, stark against Kevin’s forehead. Sam closed his eyes sharply against the memory. “In the meantime, it can’t hurt him to know a few more things. What to look out for.”

Dean shot him a sharp glance.

“I thought you were all in favor of _normal_ , Sam.”

“I…” Sam started and stopped, before he sighed. “Some people don’t get normal, Dean. We didn’t get normal.”

Hurt flashed across Dean’s face, quick and gone.

Sam opened his mouth, and closed it again.

Because they’d been here before, hadn’t they? The Motley Crue concerts, the wacky roadside sights gleaned from all those cheesy pamphlets Dean was forever picking up from motel lobbies.

The sign for “Lynard Skynard Tonight!” flashed in large bright letters just up ahead. Dean glanced at it, then at him, Dean’s lips pursed tight. It was a _horrible_ idea in so many ways—mixing in a crowd, and his brother, the demon—, and they should just avoid the whole situation and call it a night.

“Are we going or not?” Dean asked brusquely, as if he didn’t care, leaving the decision in his hands.

He skewed a sideways glance at Dean, for all the places Dean had dragged him to, _because I’m bored and it’s sunny outside, Sammy_ , _come on._

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. 

“Yeah, alright. We should go.” He met his brother’s eyes. “We’ll go.”

******

The hex bag would have hit Dean in the chest had he not reached out reflexively to catch it when Zee tossed it at him across the table the next morning. He had a millisecond’s thought that catching it might not be the best move—because some hex bags _burned_ —but this wasn’t one of them. The minute it hit his hand blessed silence fell all around him, like a blanket dropped down muffling all the _thinking_ going on around him in the restaurant. It hadn’t been _bad_ , but it took a little concentrating to shut that shit out, and the background static had been grating at him since he activated his people finding power.

He turned the leather pouch over curiously in his palm, where it rested cool against his skin. Near as he could tell, it was having about the same effect as the iron cuff, minus the skin stripping, earth-tethering part. He switched hands and looked more closely at his palm. Nope. No burns.

Huh.

How did she know?

She was unnecessarily getting Toby settled in at the table, not looking at him, not saying anything. Her hair fell over one shoulder as she reached down for something, and like a sensory blast of memory, he remembered the clean smell of it, from last night, when he’d been standing next to her, between her and Sam, at the concert. Safest place for him, between the overlapping efficacies of their two hex bags somehow muffling the crowd, and safest for everyone else if he suddenly lost it between songs and went postal.

So maybe he’d been standing a little closer to her; not touching, but close enough that his breath ruffled her hair. It _was_ crowded. She had stayed so absolutely still he didn’t think she’d noticed.

Except, clearly, she had.

He pursed his lips, and it wasn’t a pout. It was a frown. It was a frowning pout. He looked at the hex bag in his hand again.

What exactly was she saying here?

“Don’t you like it?” Toby’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I have one too.”

He stared at the bit of leather in his hand again, because now that he thought about it, having it was completely illogical. He was a _friggin’ demon_. Did demons carry hex bags?

And because Toby was still staring at him expectantly, he forced himself to answer. 

“Yeah. Sure. It’s good.”

Toby smiled widely at him and returned his attention to the menu, thinking no more of it. It wasn’t that simple though, and Sam knew it too, because Sam was zeroing in on him, with that _What haven’t you told me now?_ look on his face.

He flipped the pouch from one hand casually to the other, his eyes on the hunter across the table. Unbreakable devil’s trap under her house. Demon wards every two feet. A hex bag on her that was stronger than Sam’s. 

“Dean.”

Sam cut into his thoughts. Patience laid over impatience, glaring at the bit of cowhide in his hand.

Dean cleared his throat again before answering.

“Being able to find people. Like I said, it’s loud.”

As in, he could hear everyone around him, all the time, even when he wasn’t looking at them. Babble, babble, babble; every transgression, every sin, and the Mark _itched_ to slaughter them all.

“Your hex bags kind of, I dunno, damp out the noise.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed on him, and he could see Sam mentally reviewing where he’d been standing the past few days. Sam remembering what it meant when he _saw_ people. Sam’s lips tightened unhappily.

“Dean. You know, maybe we should…”

_Head back to the bunker. Go somewhere safe, as in safely isolated, as in somewhere where the only person he could hurt was Sam, his warden and his keeper._

His hand closed around the small pouch. Toby looked up again, catching on to the serious drift in Sam’s voice. Beside the kid, Zee was intently perusing the menu, despite the fact she only ever ordered coffee each morning.

He cleared his throat again.

“No, Sam. I’m good. This works.” He stared at the hunter across the table from him again before he repeated. “This’ll work.”

******

For the rest of the day and into the next, Dean Winchester gave her a wide berth, and by wide berth, she meant a _wide_ berth, like the boundaries of her personal space had grown to the size of a room, like he was in a huff and a puff with his panties in a bunch about the hex bag. Well, fine. Maybe Sam was used to finding his brother no more than six inches away from him on a daily basis, but she wasn’t. It hadn’t been exactly hard to figure out what his problem was—this had only really started when he’d gone after Toby.

When he used his powers.

And she figured, since she broke it, she should fix it.

He was eying her from across a parking lot again, questions upon questions in his eyes she wasn’t about to answer. 

“Zee?”

She looked back over her shoulder at Sam.

“No, nothing for me, thanks.”

They had stopped off at some smoothie joint, Sam’s suggestion, although no one could be talked into the wheat grass thing Sam was having added to his power drink.

“Will it make me tall like you?” Toby asked.

“Uh, not exactly.” Sam admitted reluctantly. “But it’s good for you. And it doesn’t taste half bad, I promise.”

One of Toby’s eyebrows crooked up skeptically.

“I’ll just have the strawberry, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

She turned towards the counter to pay for Toby’s drink, and stared at the menu while they waited for the drinks and the change.

When she turned back the parking lot was empty.

“ _Sam._ ”

Sam pivoted around, tensing up. He did one quick sweep of the small lot with sharp eyes, left to right. Sam’s voice stayed impressively even when he said, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” and handed Toby his drink with a fair imitation of calmness. “But we should get back to the cars. In case.”

They were halfway there when Dean just _appeared_ in front of them. Sam let out a strangled yelp then hissed: “ _DEAN!_ ”

Frantically Sam looked back at the window of the shop, but they were blocking any view. Or at least, the giant-ness of Sam was blocking any view.

“ _God! Don’t do that!”_ Sam paused for breath and went back to fussing. “ _What if someone saw you?”_

“Oh, relax, Sam. No one saw. I was just…” and the look Dean leveled at her was directed. “…checking some stuff.”

_Checking that he could still teleport, checking that the hex bag wasn’t a trap._ The thought had crossed her mind—it was a bit of an occupational hazard—but she’d left those ingredients out. He saw the awareness in her eyes, and his answering not-a-smile was narrowly grim.

Sam was still pitching a fit, however, staring at the cups of coffee Dean was holding in his hands.

“ _Coffee? You teleported just to get COFFEE?”_

Dean made an impatient cluck and looked pointedly at Sam’s green drink.

“Coffee.” Dean said firmly, holding onto the two cups. “Because unlike you, not _everyone_ wants to drink the lawn.”

Over the distance of five feet Dean thrust one of the cups stiffly out at her, his arm maximally extended, locked straight at the elbow and still two feet away, patently expecting her to do the same. _Personal space_ , _as requested,_ like two wingspans of it, and that was fine. She reached out for the coffee at a full arm’s length, maintaining the five foot gap between them, ridiculous as it looked, and as her fingers touched the paper he let go, and the coffee cup slipped.

There was a thing about reflexes, having them, not thinking about them and just moving. In hunting, staying alive pretty much depended on having good reflexes. So he moved forward when she did, two hands trying to catch the same falling object, with him trying to _call_ it like it was a fly ball in the outfield.

“I got it. I got…”

She was closer, but he was faster so it was kind of a tie, her fingers slipping around the cup when his fingers went around hers, and he looked down at their not quite entwined hands before finishing the sentence an octave lower.

“…it.”

His larger hand wrapped over hers on the cup, warm and firm, steadying, skin sliding against skin, the slow smoothness electric. A thin layer of paper separated the steaming liquid from the touch of her fingers, and her hand felt delicate and fragile clasped between his hand and the cup, and he was too close, a foot away, heavy-lidded eyes on her sharply indrawn breath, sharp because of the heated strength all around her, curling her toes over the nothing of a touch, _nothing_ , while her instincts jumped to the conclusion her mind had been avoiding.

_Safe._

No.

No.

This was insane. This wasn’t real.

She jerked her hand back, ready to let the coffee splatter to the ground, except he held on to it, the cup, not taking those damnably keen green eyes off her face. She pulled a steadying breath in through parted lips, dry lips, which automatically she corrected by licking and his eyes pulled straight to the motion.

Fuck.

Insofar as it was possible to snatch a cup of near boiling liquid out of someone’s hands she did so, reaching forward again and positively filching the coffee from him, trying to do it all without breathing. She said _come on, Toby_ without making any sound, and was forced to clear her throat and try again, making an utter cake of herself before she could croak out the words in a voice that didn’t sound like her voice.

“Come on, Toby. Let’s put the drinks in the car.”

Instead of, you know, drinking them, like Toby was logically doing, sucking on the straw of his strawberry shake when she said this, and he looked reasonably confused, but complied by coming to her side anyway. She started walking towards the Durango, and she may have skewed her footsteps a little to the left to avoid walking right into Dean’s electrified orbit again, but the car was that way anyhow.

It really was.

******

He stared after her as she strode off, feeling the illusion of his heart beating too fast, and tried to scrape his jaw off the floor.

_What_ was _that_?

Unfortunately, he didn’t have as much time as he wanted to ponder it, savor the deliciousness of it against his lips, maybe replay it in his head a few dozen times, because he had an extremely nosy and critical audience.

“ _Not everyone wants to drink the_ lawn? _That’s_ your line?” Sam drawled as Sam came up beside him, that damned _Sam_ -smile playing around Sam’s lips, like Sam was amused because Sam saw way too damned much.

To avoid answering, he took a sip of his coffee.

It was kind of tingly. And warm.

_Tingly_? Did he just use the word, _tingly_?

Dammit.

Glaring at the traitorous cup in his hand, he shifted where he stood without trying to be obvious about it, _settle down, settle down_ , except it was hard to breathe normally when you didn’t need air anyway. To distract himself he glanced at the icy _green_ stuff that was in Sam’s hand.

“Lawn.” He repeated firmly. “What’s in that crap, anyway?”

Sam sniffed. “Apples. Wheat grass. Organic spirulina.”

He backed up and gave his brother a narrow-eyed look.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He paused, then tacked on: “Crowley was right.”

Taken completely aback, Sam sputtered, “What?? Right about what?”

And since Sam totally deserved what was coming, Dean felt no remorse about keeping a straight face as he delivered his parting shot.

“You ARE a Moose.”


	45. Time in a Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Jim Croce.

Honestly, he hadn’t counted on Toby’s reaction.

“But ponies are for _girls_!”

Sam made a noise like a snorting moose, kind of muffled, like Sam was trying not to laugh.

They were standing just beyond the corral clustered together in an awkward bunch, Toby with an expression of righteous dismay on his face. Alright, so maybe the kid had a point. They were looking at a bunch of ponies, and a couple of little girls riding ponies, and a dearth of boys and men, but when he saw the sign for horse riding lessons, how would he have known?

Sam coughed again, trying to swallow a lung or something.

Dean scowled.

“Fine. Maybe we should just…”

“Hmm.”

And without saying anything else, Zee walked off, away from them, towards the stable. What the hell was she up to now? She came back minutes later, leading a sleek brown mare by the reins, followed by a dude with a bit of a beer belly holding a kid’s riding helmet and leading what was decidedly a dappled gray pony.

“At least it’s not a farty donkey.” Sam murmured under his breath.

She ignored that, stopping a little ways away and looked at Toby.

“Ponies are just the first step.”

Dean could tell she knew what she was doing from the way she repositioned the reins. He was expecting she would use a mounting block, and maybe that’s why the whole thing hit him so hard, because he was caught completely off guard when she just went for it, one hand in the horse’s mane and the other on the pommel, foot in the stirrup with a step and a light vault, one leg over the horse’s hindquarters without stopping, as elegant and fluid a mount as any hero in every Western he’d ever watched, and _sweet baby Jesus that was incredibly hot._ His imagination got a little away from him when she steadied herself against the mare’s sides with her knees before seating herself securely in the saddle.

His mouth was suddenly dry, probably because his jaw was gaping a bit. His entire body had kind of seized, so Sam sounded entirely credible when Sam elbowed him and urgently hissed.

“ _Dean! Your tongue’s hanging out.”_

He actually had to stop and check, which was bad enough. Sam was laughing to himself, a low chortle that got cut off when he whapped Sam on the back of Sam’s head. The sun was too bright and that’s why it was so warm, not because she nudged the mare around and slanted them a look, challenge in the high arch of one brow.

“Well boys, coming or not?”

He lost track of what they were doing, having a hard time with this insane overlap of his two favorite things, Westerns and women, never having imagined them together quite like this when Sam elbowed him again, a little more heated embarrassment behind Sam’s whisper this time.

“ _Dude_. Eyes up. Keep it PG, man.”

It really wasn’t his fault what was level with his line of sight, and it wasn’t his fault her jeans really, really fit, and surely Sam wasn’t asking him not to look at the sweet curve of denim right in front of him, but Sam’s sharp elbow caught him square on the ribs again and with a cough, he redirected his attention off to the right to the stocky cowboy holding the riding helmet, who said:

“Your girl’s got a good seat.”

Oh, hey, wait a minute, now.

“She’s not…” he started.

Zee’s icy voice finished for him from up on her high horse. “… _his girl._ ”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” And Cowboy looked at Sam standing beside him, “So, are you and your…”

“Brother. His brother.” Sam stuck out a hand before things got more off track. “Sam.”

“Sam. Carlos.” Carlos looked his way expectantly.

“I’m Dean. And this is…”

“Toby.” Toby piped up and moved on to his newest obsession, looking at Zee with hero worship eyes. “Can I do that?”

Carlos laughed, amused and completely getting it, “I’m sure you can, kid, but not right yet, not today. How’s about we start with getting to know your pony first, hmm?”

******

They finished the afternoon with currying and brushing, Sam giving him a surprised side-eye from time to time, because yes, he did know how to ride, and yes, there were things Sam didn’t know about him that he’d learned in those four years Sam was away. But however well he rode, it was nothing compared to the way _she_ rode, like she’d grown up doing it, like it was in her blood.

Carlos took the saddle from her, watching the easy familiarity of her motions as she smoothed the brush over the mare’s shoulder.

“You ride often, Miss?”

Had he not been looking straight at her, he wouldn’t have caught it. Like thunderstorms and night drowning out sunshine, the shadow in her eyes, none of it showing up in her voice at all when she answered too evenly.

“No. Not anymore.”

******

Sam woke up with a start, because there was a noise that sounded like Dean humming, one hand keeping time on the steering wheel to Lynard Skynard’s _Simple Man_ on the radio. For a second he wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep, swamped by a sense of déjà vu, because it felt like old times, with the grooves of the Impala’s upholstery pressed into his cheek, dry and secure against the rain pattering on her windows, the cloudy skies roiling overhead illuminated by the occasional flash of lightening. He blinked the sleep hastily out of his eyes, glancing out to check on the flatness of Nebraska still sweeping by, raindrops pelting down heavily on newly plowed furrows. Surreptitiously he snuck his left hand over the scar on his right, and felt along the hard ridge of skin on his palm.

His scar was still there.

He sat up and Dean cast a look his way.

“How long was I out?”

Dean thought about it for a minute.

“Since about Lincoln, I’d say.”

Spray from an eighteen-wheeler passing in the opposite direction engulfed the windshield for a moment. In the side mirror he could see the headlights of Zee’s SUV behind them, and the wipers running at full speed.

He hadn’t been sure, for a moment.

This all seemed a little bit too much like it might be a dream.

He hadn’t realized how _right_ this all was to him, being on the road again, the nightly kaleidoscope of motel rooms with their beaten up mini-fridges and eclectic décor, the erratic water pressures and maybe-will-work heaters. It all felt more natural, more _home_ , somehow, than the bunker’s solid walls—the Impala’s wheels eating up the miles, asphalt rolling away beneath him and the sky open overhead, the rhythm of his life from his earliest memories on, when things had been, and he hadn’t known it then, _good_.

He sat up a little straighter in the seat.

“Where are we?”

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror before answering.

“Just passed Broken Bow.”

Halfway, give or take.

No. It wasn’t fair to count the trip in miles, because they hadn’t exactly made for Cody in a straight line. It was taking far too long and going far too fast, memories piling up, dare he say it, on the _good_ side of the scale for once, and part of him cringed, waiting for the other shoe to fall. There always was one.

Dean started humming again, absently, with his eyes on the road and the crook of a smile on his face, thinking about the baseball game they’d been to, probably. An afternoon sitting in the nosebleed seats, far above the outfield, Toby loaded down with more hot dogs and peanuts and popcorn and pretzels than he could possibly eat, because _Come on, Sam, when’s he going to be able to do this again?_ was what Dean had said.

_Plenty of times, Dean._ He’d almost replied. _He’s got his whole life ahead of him_.

But he’d held his tongue, because that wasn’t what they were talking about, was it?

Instead all he’d said was, “I’ll go get us some beers.”


	46. The Unforgiven II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Metallica.

This wasn’t what she had been expecting when they crossed into South Dakota. What had she been expecting? Sturgis, maybe. Deadwood. Any number of rollicking old Wild West towns, wooden storefronts and gunslinger’s hideouts, but maybe right about now she’d given up on Dean Winchester doing the predictable thing. 

They took the long way around, through the alien landscape of the Badlands, bare red rock protruding from the earth in eerie spires. Their pit stops were brief, because Dean got twitchy, eyeing the landscape as if it reminded him of something he didn’t want to remember. They skipped Mount Rushmore and kept going, until they came to the Black Hills, the wide valleys touched with the first hints of spring. Under a seemingly endless sky they kept driving, from two-lane highway onto a small back road, turning on to a gravel lane.

Finally they came to a stop at a pullout along the road by a rushing creek. She didn’t know who was more surprised, her, or Sam, when Dean reached into the Impala’s trunk and started unloading fishing gear with familiar motions.

Sam recovered first.

“Fishing?”

“Yeah, Sam. It’s a thing. People do it.”

“But.” Sam wrinkled his forehead. “What are you going to do with _fish_ , Dean?”

Dean shrugged. “Put ‘em back, I suppose.”

“Then what’s the point of fishing?”

“What’s the point of _camping_ , Sam? Or whatever it is you do.”

Sam had nothing to say to that.

They trooped along the bank of the creek until they came to a small meadow. Water tumbled crisp and clean over the rocks, ice cold from the snowmelt higher up. She left the boys to it, watching with bemusement as Dean coached Toby through the finicky process of casting a fly lure for trout. The flat rock she sat on was sun warmed and the air was still, a little nip to it still, the smell of grass and trees piney and sharp. A white butterfly cavorted from buttercup to daisy and back again, drifting a little with the light breeze.

The boys fell silent as their lures bobbed in the water. Toby’s eyelids were starting to droop from sitting in the warm sun with nothing going on. Maybe that was the point. The kid tipped to one side, leaning against Dean sleepily. Dean stayed rock still, seeming to watch nothing but the flashing bits of sunlight bright on the water. Further down the bank Sam sat with his elbows on his knees, the expression on his face a thousand miles away, dreaming of another time and another grassy idyll, perhaps.

She took another deep breath and leaned back, letting the sun warm her face, listening to the tumbling run of the creek, the wind rustle in the leaves and the bird chirps trilling through the air.

Bird chirps.

There weren’t any.

She didn’t so much sit up as she slid off the rock onto her feet, fully alert, at pretty much the same time she heard Dean’s low growl, “ _Sam._ ”

Sam was on his feet, Beretta out, one hand reaching out for Toby as Dean got the boy to his feet.

“ _What? Where?_ ”

Dean’s reply was terse.

“Shifter.”

“After us?” Was Sam’s sharp tight query.

Dean didn’t answer. The meadow was quiet, quiet and empty except the shadows that shifted with the wind in the stand of river birch downstream. She watched the pattern of shade on the ground, sunlight and leaves and nothing else moving, a fraction of her attention on the boys handing Toby off between them, Dean drawing the First Blade out of thin air, the grim tightening of Sam’s hand on Toby’s shoulder as his brother did that,

and _movement_ up ahead.

She didn’t think. 

As the dagger left her hand, Dean teleported. He reappeared behind where the shifter had been with a lethal swing of the First Blade, thwacked the weapon into an innocent tree, trembling the leaves overhead. Shock crossed his face at the hard impact of his weapon against wood instead of flesh, shock transforming into outrage as the shifter landed with a thud by his feet, her silver dagger protruding from the shifter’s chest.

Across the distance of yards he spun to face her and bellowed.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”

Green eyes. Green eyes and not black. To her left she could hear the long sigh of Sam’s relieved breath. Temper narrowed her eyes and quickened her steps as she crossed the meadow. She glanced down at the dead shifter, at the shifter’s skin where the silver had met flesh, sizzling and oozing and melting ugly still. She bent down and retrieved her dagger from the sagging chest, wiping it against the shifter’s shirt to clean off the viscous translucent goo before she answered.

“What was _what_?”

There was an uncharacteristic snap to her voice. She tried to dial it back.

Dean glared at the body by his boots, then poked at it with the donkey’s jawbone.

“ _What if I was wrong_?”

Since the odds of demon senses mistaking a shifter for a human were basically nil, she didn’t even blink when she answered.

“You weren’t.” 

He glared at her again.

“I had it.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“ _Then why did you…”_

Because of what happened each time he used the First Blade. Because he was an idiot. Because blowing up angels with the power of your mind was a power no human should have.

She wasn’t bloody well going to say all that, though, so she said the first _other_ thing that came to mind.

“Throwing’s faster than teleporting.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“And just how would you know _that_?”

Unconsciously her hand moved to go over the flame-and-pentagram pattern burned into her upper arm. She clamped down on the little telltale twitch and went for her iciest voice.

“Because it’s _true_.”

She prodded the shifter’s corpse with one booted foot. She’d just demonstrated that, and she was stating the painfully obvious.

Green eyes raked her from head to toe. She didn’t look up, didn’t elaborate, and her expression stayed shuttered. 

His scrutiny was interrupted by Toby running up to them, Sam two steps behind him. Toby’s eyes were wide on the dead shifter and its grotesquely dissolving skin. Toby’s attention fastened with laser like focus on the dagger in her hand. 

“Teach me how to do that.”

She compressed her lips together, biting down before she answered curtly.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not old enough.”

“When am I going to be old enough?”

To avoid answering, she narrowed her eyes quellingly. It had never worked on Toby’s particular brand of stubborn, and it didn’t work now. Toby stared at her, eyes too sharp and searching, before he blurted accusingly.

“You’re not coming to see me again.”

Her lips pulled taut. He read her too well.

“It’s not a good idea.”

The kid’s chin wobbled before Toby sucked down a breath. Relenting, she knelt down to meet him at eye level.

“Xavier and Kim will look after you. Xavier’ll teach you. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

The reassurance came out pale and weak, and she knew it, but it was the best thing for him. Stability, behind the shield of Xavier’s wards and Toby’s very own angel proofing, there would be enough breathing room to find his footing, and given enough time, without her, for the nightmares to fade, a chance to someday opt out of the life if he wanted to.

Toby’s lower lip disappeared as he bit down on it. His hands fisted by his sides, looking at her, a fine tremble starting in his shoulders. He gulped one breath, then another, lower lip pushing into upper, his face setting with a look of stubborn determination.

“I want to stay with you.”

She held still. These last few days—she swallowed tightly. It was tempting. Tempting to think they could make a go of it, just keep driving, stay one step ahead of disaster, holding on to a few shining moments snatched from the breath of chaos.

There was a gurgling noise as what was left of the dead shifter’s dissolving chest caved in.

She closed her eyes briefly, reminded of what was real. Her voice was as flat and unemotional as she could make it when she spoke again.

“No.”

Blue eyes widened like she had struck him. She held on tightly to her semblance of composure.

Tears slipped from the corners of Toby’s eyes. He scrubbed at one eye roughly with the back of his hand, gulped, then had to scrub at his other eye, holding her gaze defiantly. They stared at each other like gunfighters at high noon, locked in a contest of wills, until with a shuddering gulp Toby spun around and bolted off in the opposite direction, past Sam, headlong down to the bank of the creek.

Numbly she moved to follow, not really knowing what she could say. She had taken one step, blindly, when she felt Sam’s hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t even seen him move.

“Hey.”

She looked up at Sam, at the silent sympathy on Sam’s face.

Sam gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and glanced behind her at his brother.

“You guys stay. I’ll go talk to him.”

******

They remained silent, watching Sam’s departing back.

“You sure that’s your play?”

His voice came out too rough. He had no right to ask, and Dean knew it, but the words came out before he could hold them back.

Her glance up was like the cut of a laser.

“It’s the best move.”

With that, she turned and headed for the Durango. He fell in step beside her. He knew he should let it go, but he just couldn’t.

“Just to leave him alone like that?”

She inhaled and held it, which was as much as she was going to let show. He would have perfected that unfeeling stoniness himself, except he had Sam to bug him, Sam to pester him, Sam’s one thousand and one questions to drive him nuts.

He went around a different way.

“This Xavier character we’re taking him to, he’s some kind of sword Yoda?”

“A swordsmith.”

“Hunter?”

“Retired.”

He didn’t know there was such a thing, but it was something. He was getting as bad as Sam, because he kept pressing.

“Ever think about quitting?”

Her step stuttered before she answered shortly.

“No.”

“We could get you angel-proofed. Call in a favor—one of Cas’ buddies, maybe.”

At that, she stopped and turned on her heel to face him, high temper in the sharpness of her glare.

“And what good would that do?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, _so you can keep the kid with you, stay safe at this hideout in Cody, maybe teach him what he needs to know. Bring him up like we were brought up, which wasn’t much, but at least we had each other._ He needed that, needed the both of them safely tucked away at this sanctuary place, until she blew it all to smithereens when she narrowed her eyes and repeated more vehemently with a gesture at the sky above and the world at large.

“ _Exactly what good is that going to do?_ ”

Monsters and zombies and another lunatic archangel, bent on reshaping the world to some new order, razing the landscape as they knew it. Better than anyone they knew the dangers coming, and no place was really safe.

“It’s not your fight.”

She looked at him disbelievingly, and scoffed exactly like Sam. Without bothering to say anything else, she headed for the SUV again. He caught up to her as she opened the hatch and reached in for her shovel.

“We’ll take care of it. Sam and me and Cas.”

She went still, one hand wrapped around her shovel’s wooden handle. With an invisible sigh she closed her eyes and said very quietly, “How do you know _you_ won’t be part of the problem?”

It shouldn’t have stopped him dead, but it did. It was nothing but the truth. It was just these last few days—he clamped his lips together and turned away, taking the few steps towards the Impala, where they had their own shovel in the trunk.

Had it been Sam, Sam would have come after him, put a hand on his arm. Sam would have said something to take the edge off, found some upside silver lining or some way out, because that was Sam. But it wasn’t her. She had neither Sam’s faith nor Sam’s folly. She had an angel blade stashed in her jacket, and standing there just now, as she had been, six inches from his chest, she could have easily turned and jammed it straight in between his ribs. He didn’t doubt, if she thought she needed to do it, she would have.

She hadn’t. Opportunity time and again she hadn’t taken, but it didn’t mean she didn’t stay aware of the threat.

Mechanically he rummaged around in the Impala’s trunk until his hand found the shovel.

She was right.

They had to bury what was left of the shifter.


	47. Wake Me Up When September Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Green Day.

Sam kept an eye on Toby ahead of him, watching as the boy came to a stop where the grassy bank of the creek gave way to rocks and boulders, making the footing ahead treacherous. Toby’s shoulders heaved silently.

Sam approached slowly.

“Hey.”

Keeping his back to him, Toby stared resolutely up at the sky.

He walked up next to where Toby was standing, and looked down at the rocks. He squatted down and picked up a coin shaped pebble. In the distance he could see Dean and Zee digging a shallow grave to bury what was left of the shapeshifter. On the job, because the job seemed to be following them around.

Toby sniffed once.

“What was that?”

The kid’s voice was deceptively even, considering the hiccup at the end.

Sam glanced downstream again.

“Shapeshifter.” He looked at Toby’s set face. “They can change their face to look like anyone. Silver burns them, and you can kill them with a silver bullet to the heart. Or,” he tilted his head back towards where they had been, “A silver dagger works too.”

Toby turned and pinned him with a curious look.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Sam glanced down at his hands, and turned the pebble over between his fingers.

“So you’ll know, in case you run into one someday.” With a flick of his wrist, he launched the pebble into the creek, where it landed with a splash.

Toby sniffed again. Following his motions, the kid picked up a small stone and skipped it into the water. For a moment there was just the swishing of water cascading over the rocks and the breeze ruffling the knee high grass on the other bank.

“She thinks she’s not coming back.”

Sam paused.

“Why would you think that?”

The look Toby skewed his way was astoundingly clear.

“Because otherwise she’d have said she’d come teach me, when I’m older.” The boy paused. “She won’t make a promise she can’t keep.”

Sam’s breath jammed, raw in his throat.

He’d heard their whole conversation, and somehow not heard anything at all.

And the damning thing was, the kid had the right of it.

“Dad always said that. _Don’t make promises you can’t keep_.” Toby bit down hard on another hiccup, one hand going compulsively over the dog tags that rested over his heart. One finger tapped on the oval shape of the amulet next to the dog tags. “He gave me this. He said it’d keep me safe.” Blue eyes met his, intense and fierce. “He should have taken it. I don’t want to be safe. I want him to come back.”

Toby’s hand tightened over the tags and the amulet, bunching up his shirt.

“I want her to stay.”

Sunlight sparkled on the icy water tripping over the stones in the creek. Sam kept his eyes on the tumble of the water, his throat locked up, because if there were words, he didn’t know what they were. It was an impossible situation. The things they were involved in—the angels and Judgment Day—there was just no place for a kid in all of that. He sat down slowly on one of the larger rocks, because the ground beneath his feet felt suddenly wobbly.

He’d done this.

A family.

He’d wanted Dean to have a family. To replace the one he’d lost, to somehow tether his brother’s soul to the world, to keep it out of the darkness.

And it was working, wasn’t it? These last few days—

The half rasp of breath he took was bitter. He hadn’t thought this through, all the potential pitfalls, blithely overridden Dean’s instinctive caution that having people around them was a bad, _bad_ idea, hadn’t _listened_ , but they could still turn it around. They just needed to do what they were going to do anyway, put a period to Ramiel and Ramiel’s plans, and Zee would be free of the target on her back.

They’d faced off worse odds and pulled through. They would try. It all had to work. It had to. It was working—Zee’s dagger throw and Dean’s not going all black-eyed—

He cleared his throat.

“We’ll watch her back. She’s important to us too.”

Blue eyes the color of the sky searched his face, stripped it bare. Sam kept still and met Toby’s gaze head on, his heart in every word he’d said.

Toby’s lips twitched fractionally and then he hiccupped, back to being a kid again. But Toby’s stare had all of Zee’s precision to it when Toby leveled it in his direction with one word.

“Alright.”


	48. I'll Fight Hell to Hold You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi guys! Thanks so much for the lovely comments! Feedback is very much appreciated. I'm having hit-and-miss luck getting my replies to go where I want them to, so apologies if you did not get a response, and thanks again!  
> Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
> 
> Chapter title is from song by Kiss.

They were cruising through the scrubby flatness of eastern Wyoming when Sam spotted the large yellow tent by the side of the road. It was vaguely familiar, and he sat straight up in the Impala’s passenger seat.

“Dude, pull over. Pull over here.”

He gestured emphatically when Dean skidded a look at him, gesturing because he already had his phone out and was talking.

“Hey, Toby? Ask Zee to wait for us – “ Sam looked around. “—up at the next gas station, okay? What? No, no, everything’s okay. We just need to make a quick stop. We’ll only be fifteen minutes.” Sam looked at the sign above the tent again as it got closer. “Make that twenty. Wait for us, okay?”

He ended the call to find Dean looking at him strangely, glancing at the bright yellow tent of the roadside stand.

“I didn’t think you remembered.”

Sam just stared at his brother.

“Are you kidding? Of course I remember. That was the most fun we’d had in ages. Dad would have never let us do that. Come on, dude. We have to. It’ll be perfect.”

Dean glanced ahead at the SUV pulling away from them, lips tight like he was taking a chance on something, before he flicked the turn signal on grimly and pulled off the freeway.

He followed his brother’s glance.

“You think she’s going to bail on us?”

They were only a half day out from Cody. Down to the final leg, close enough to sprint.

“No.” Dean said slowly. “Probably not.”

“Well, come on, then.” He put his hand impatiently on the Impala’s door handle as Dean came to a stop in the gravel lot. “Let’s go see what they’ve got in there.”

******

It was hard, sometimes, to dissuade Sam once he got his teeth into something. The fifty miles to the next gas station were an eternity, and more aggravating because of Sam’s shining certainty.

“She’s not just going to disappear without letting Toby say goodbye, Dean.”

His lips tightened, down at the corners.

“It’d be the logical thing to do.”

Priorities. Protecting the cubs in their midst came first. They’d given her the perfect opening to bolt, adios and sayonara, down the rabbit hole and disappear into safety. It was the best move.

So he was honestly surprised when they pulled into the next gas station and found the Durango parked there, Toby sitting on the tailgate swinging his legs, working on a hot dog and a slushie. She was standing by the front of the SUV, gazing down the highway at the mountain range in the distance before she turned and slanted an impassive glance their direction.

“See?” Sam chirruped. And it really was a chirrup, because there was no other way to describe Sam’s gloating glee.

He frowned forbiddingly at his giant kid brother.

“Whatever you’re doing, Sam, stop it.”

“Stop what?” Sam played innocent.

Dean’s hand tightened on the steering wheel.

“This family _thing_ , Sam. Quit trying to shove them down my throat. They’re _not_ Lisa and Ben.”

He growled the last part vehemently, because _goddammit_ , it hurt. It hurt to have things torn out of your hands. It hurt to hope and fall. It just _frickin’ hurt_.

What was seething in him must have seeped through, because Sam took a deep breath and said more gently, _sympathetically_ , “Dean.”

He kept his eyes forward, staring rigidly out the windshield, not looking at his brother.

There was a tap on the window next to him. He swallowed the thing sitting in his throat, and stuck an expression on his face before rolling down the window for Toby. The kid’s blue eyes were serious before Toby said: “Zee says we’ll stay in Cody tonight.”

_End of the line_.

Dean pressed his lips together briefly. “Yeah. That sounds good.” Toby moved back out of the way as he opened the car door. “Come on. Gimme a hand getting these bugs off the windshield.”

******

He wasn’t sure how this had happened—this thing they did at the end of the day, sitting down to dinner together. Where did it start? Springdale or Fayetteville, or maybe Branson? One meal turned into two then into something they just did, falling into it because it felt natural. A routine.

Nothing felt routine now, in the home straightaway, the end looming in sight. It hung over the table as Toby picked at his burger, chewing slowly as if it would somehow drag out time. The kid’s curly fries sat in a pile untouched, and Dean took another futile swig of beer.

Sam broke the heavy silence with another chirrup.

“How about a drive after dinner?”

Zee flicked an unmoved glance at his brother and said, “Sure. Why not?”

That was way too easy.

She’d figured out what they were up to. It wouldn’t have been hard. That was why she waited for them at the gas station. She didn’t want to spoil it for the kid.

He didn’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or tense up again, because it was like taking one step forward without knowing if the next one was solid. Or even there. It shouldn’t matter exactly when—exactly when the knife would fall—later or tomorrow or sometime on the road after that. They had gotten to Cody. Mission accomplished. That was the deal. Except this thing Sam wanted to do.

And Sam was pushing his luck.

“We’ll take the Impala?”

He gave Zee a questioning look then, because it wasn’t worth arguing over. She’d always liked having her own wheels, which was something he totally got.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

By this point they were so far off norm that Toby’s head had popped up, burger in his hand forgotten, looking from one face to the other, trying to guess what was up. It was hard to miss Sam’s golden retriever anticipation, because Sam had no poker face to speak of, even though Sam was the one who wanted it to be a surprise, and maybe Sam had the right idea after all, because Toby was now completely distracted from the coming journey’s end.

Dean put his maggoty hamburger back down on his plate.

“Well, what are we waiting for then? Let’s go.”

******

It was dark beyond the outer reaches of town. They drove far past the last house, and farther than that, until the night was pitch black around them. Toby leaned forward in the Impala’s seat, trying to see where they were going. When they were far enough from civilization Dean pulled off the road a ways into an empty field, and put the Impala in park.

“Come give me a hand with the trunk, Toby.”

He met Zee’s eyes in the rearview mirror, watching as her long lashes drifted down, concealing her thoughts.

He got out of the car slowly, wondering why now, of all times, she’d be going along with Sam’s foolish optimism. There was half of him that wanted to get this done, done and over with. Drop them back at the motel and just take off, back to the bunker or on to the next hunt, it didn’t matter, just away. A clean cut. That was all getting scuttled as Toby came up beside him, a vibrating bundle of barely contained anticipation. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that there was an eight year old in there still.

He popped the Impala’s trunk.

Toby’s jaw dropped.

“No way.” The kid breathed. “For real?” Toby looked up at him. “All of them?”

He felt himself smile. He looked up at Sam, at Sam’s smug slow grin.

They’d filled the trunk with roman candles and bottle rockets, missiles and parachutes. There were boxes and boxes of them, fountains and spinners, smokes and snakes, aerials and whirlies, and just plain old noisemakers. Sam had even picked up something called a Furious Frog.

He’d given the yellow foil ball with a green frog face on it a skeptical look and said, “Dude, what the hell is that?”

Sam shrugged, “No idea. We’ll find out, I guess.”

And Sam was reaching into the trunk now for a box of blue and red rockets, the long tubes lying on their sides far in the back, saying, “Hey, I remember these. These are great. Come on, Toby, let’s go check them out.” while Toby grabbed a box of spinners and off the two of them went. He didn’t know where Sam had got that from—because it was usually _his_ thing, the pyrotechnics and the headlong dive into fun.

Zee came up beside him and glanced into the Impala’s still full trunk.

He tensed up again. He wanted badly to turn, slide one hand along her chin, feel the silky glide of her skin beneath his thumb. Dip his head and steal that kiss, one for the road and one to go, a touch of warmth for the long cold days ahead. His hands clenched by his sides because she was looking past him at Toby and Sam, their faces lit by the boom and brilliance cascading from the sky.

She nodded towards the kids.

“Thank you.”

“It was Sam’s idea.”

She skewed a glance at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Hmm. Wonder who he got that from.”

There was a time when he would have made a move, because what could it hurt? He would have threaded his fingers through hers, slow and hot. Tugged her in to him, and whispered a kiss across her lips. It felt like that kind of moment, all chick-flick and not his usual thing, but his breath burned with it, wanting it, wanting to know if this fizzing whatever-it-was had substance and form, wanting to see where it went.

The booming noises overhead stopped.

“Dean!” Toby called out. “Aren’t you coming?”

He turned to look at Toby beckoning him, bright with excitement, and Sam’s rueful smile.

She had stepped away by the time he turned around again, but not before she picked a box at random out of the trunk and dropped it in his hands.

“Looks like they need you. You’d better go.”


	49. Silent Lucidity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Queensryche.

It was too early in the morning, so early that Sam wasn’t even up yet, but he wanted to be sure he saw them off. He leaned back against the Impala when Zee came out of the adjacent motel room, drawing her leather jacket closer against the cold.

“So.” He handed her one of the coffees he was holding.

“When we get to Xavier’s, stay close, and _don’t wander off_.”

What?

“What?” He said out loud, not at all sure he heard her correctly, because that wasn’t what he was expecting. At all.

“I called ahead. He’s expecting us.”

He spent a moment trying to wrap his head around what she was saying before his brows furrowed together.

“Us? As in, all of us? _Why?_ ”

She glanced at the closed motel room door behind her.

“It’ll be easier. On Toby. If it’s just one big goodbye.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And Xavier agreed to this?”

Zee shrugged.

His eyes narrowed. Was this a trap? He couldn’t think of any other reason that any hunter would let _him_ within fifty miles of their house, unless the place was rigged like Zee’s lake house had been rigged, devil’s traps and demon wards everywhere you turned, and why not lock him up now that his part of the job was done? It made a warped kind of sense.

She looked behind her again, an inscrutable flicker crossing her face.

“He’s been through a lot. Seemed like it would be easier to rip the bandaid off all in one go.”

Easier for who? He stared harder at her as she took a sip of her coffee. He didn’t really disagree, but was that really it? Because the job came first, and last he checked, he was still on the to-do list as far as that went. He’d have to be stupid to think otherwise.

She flicked a look at a car passing on the road, back to blankly neutral again when she glanced his way.

“Come or not. Your call.”

******

Zee had said Xavier’s place was “out in the country a ways”, which made it sound much closer than it was. To say the place was remote was an understatement. If the middle of nowhere had a middle of nowhere, that’s where they were.

They had turned off the road some time ago, and were now kicking up an announcing cloud of dust as they drove down the long dirt driveway. At the end of it was a weathered yellow Victorian, white painted scrollwork decorating the eaves of the wraparound porch. A little white picket fence ran around the house, doing absolutely nothing useful, as far as Dean could tell.

Something moved in the deep shade of the porch. _Someone_.

Dean stiffened. He’d gotten certain ideas fixed in his mind about Xavier, chiefly centered on Yoda _._ The Professor. Matlock. Mr. Miyagi. Ben Cartwright, at the very most. 

The watchful shadow that separated itself from the wall of the Victorian was _not_ small, _not_ green, _not_ white haired, and above all, not in any adequate way, _old._

Beside him Sam sucked in an audible breath, feeling the danger vibe off the dark figure.

“Dean.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Zee had neglected to mention a few things about Xavier. _Retired_ was not the word he would have used to describe the man watching them with hooded eyes from his guard position just by the Victorian’s front door. Whipcord lean and about his height’s worth of solid muscle, Xavier was one of those guys that would have sat in the corner of the roadhouse nursing a whiskey in silence, back carefully to the wall, and the other hunters would have left him the hell alone, even after the courage of a few beers, because of the giant flashing neon sign over his head that said _do-not-cross_.

Zee’s Durango stopped at a random spot in the dirt, outside the little decorative fence that went around the house. Ahead of them Toby got out of the SUV slowly, looking around cautiously, and Xavier didn’t move.

The door of the house burst open with a flurry of blonde. Strawberry blonde, curly in ringlets, looking around until the blonde spotted Xavier still stationary behind the now opened screen door. The flurry made a little cluck of reproach, before turning her attention to Toby and smiling at the kid, like a sunbeam and a summer day. She came down the short path between the house and the fence, her movements unhurried and slightly deliberate, like someone used to skittish things.

“You must be Toby.”

Looking around and seeing two cars, she turned and smiled at them too, sitting stupid like petrified ducks in the Impala.

Zee came around the front of the SUV and put a hand on Toby’s shoulder.

“Toby, this is Kim.”

Toby didn’t move. He kept both hands around his bottle of water.

The blonde nodded towards the bottle.

“Holy water?”

Toby blinked with surprise.

Kim held out a hand.

“Here. You’d best check.”

Without taking his eyes off her, Toby uncapped the bottle. Zee kept her hand on the kid’s shoulder as Toby reached out and poured a little splash of water on Kim’s outstretched hand.

Nothing happened.

Toby replaced the cap on his water slowly. The kid scanned Kim’s face carefully again.

“How do I know you’re not something else?”

The blonde didn’t seem at all surprised.

“Well, there are tests for that. But if we’re going to do them all, you’d be better off checking me and Xavier out together. Saves time.” Kim looked at the dark shadow on the porch, turned back, and winked. “That way we’ll have more time for ice cream and cake later.” She held out her hand. “What do you say?”

Toby looked back at Zee, hesitating.

Dean knew what that slight smile of reassurance for Toby cost her, that little nudge and nod. Toby took Kim’s outstretched hand slowly, tentative, and Kim didn’t hurry. She followed Toby’s glance back towards the Impala and waved at him and Sam, friendly and sunny.

_Don’t be shy, come on out._

Toby’s feet were still stuck to the ground. Zee gave the kid another little nudge forward.

“Go on. We’ll be there in a minute.”

******

In the end it was Sam that got out of the car first, shrugging into his sociable persona, introducing himself to Kim, exchanging pleasantries about the drive and the weather like any well-mannered guest. Sam flanked Toby’s other side, and with seemingly random steps ushered them all up to the house. Sam was good at that.

Zee followed slowly, bringing up the rear. She glanced once at him, still sitting in his car, and left him to it. He wasn’t sure getting out was a good idea. He could still feel Xavier’s eyes on him, peeling away the surface of his skin, seeing the demon beneath. He resisted the urge to stare back defiantly, because he just wanted to get through this without incident. He grit his teeth before he pulled the keys from the Impala’s ignition and opened her door, his boots touching the ground cautiously.

He stood. That was as far as he was going to go.

He leaned against Baby’s hood, watching from this side of the fence. The little knot of them had stopped just shy of the porch steps, Xavier staying on the porch just outside the cloud of Kim’s cheerful chatter, only half-listening. Dean knew where the other half of the man’s attention would be. On him. Sizing up the situation, all the angles and permutations, working out for himself if things were really on the level and square.

Unaccountably Dean bristled on Toby’s behalf, not that he would have done any different had he been in Xavier’s shoes. Knowing that didn’t make him feel any better, nor seeing the quiet word exchanged between Xavier and Zee—a history there he wasn’t privy to. With effort he kept his expression neutral and examined his surroundings. There was another building a few yards away from the Victorian, low to the ground and blending into the landscape. Beyond that was just featureless land, scrubby and dry for miles and miles, stretching to the snow capped mountains on the horizon far beyond.

The burble of chatter from the porch faded indoors and Sam was heading his way again.

“Hey, Kim invited us to stay the night. Help Toby feel more settled in.”

Dean froze, startled. He’d already had his hand on the Impala’s door, ready to go. His glance up at Sam skipped past Sam, to the “retired” hunter that was still watching him from the porch.

“I don’t think that’s her decision to make.”

Sam looked back. “I think he’s alright, Dean.” Sam paused. “Matter of fact, I can see why Zee thought this would be the best place for Toby.”

He looked at the catch in Sam’s voice when Sam said that, knowing where it came from.

“You okay?”

Sam shook himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just…” Sam looked off into the distance. “Kim reminds me of Jess a little.” Sam paused again. “And she knows the drill—borax and silver, salt and blood.” Sam laughed a little. “Only she said, _a pinprick of blood ought to be enough, right? I’m not going to go all macho with a hunting knife like the rest of you guys._ And you have to admit, she has a point there.”

He could see it in Sam’s eyes, wanting to stay. This was different, and Sam was intrigued.

There was movement from the porch. Whatever he had ultimately decided, watching them, Xavier was heading their way, long strides making short work of the path.

Dean straightened.

“Better head on up to the house.” Dean didn’t take his eyes off the approaching figure, his words light for his baby brother. “This is probably going to be a conversation for the adults.”

Sam made a bitchface before he asked, low and cautious, “You sure?”

“Yeah. Go.”

******

Closer up he could see the sparse gray in Xavier’s dark hair, and feel the icy clarity of Xavier’s gray eyes. The other man’s face was hard and unforgiving; his words direct and clipped.

“Angels after you?”

The voice was faintly accented. English diluted by time, slightly sharp on the vowels.

“Yeah.”

There was no point in lying. He was walking trouble; may as well admit it.

“Toby?”

Dean’s lips pulled taut.

“Shouldn’t be. Don’t think so. Zee had him warded, anyway.”

He was not happy about the way that had all gone down, half steps, even though that was all Cas could manage at the time. He was not happy if it was going to be an issue.

Xavier regarded the tense set of his shoulders consideringly.

"Step around the red rugs." Xavier instructed curtly as he turned to go back, paused, and glanced back. "It'll be all different next time." He added by way of warning.

******

The other structure he had seen earlier turned out to be Xavier’s dojo, and it was where he and Sam bedded down for the night, unfurling their sleeping bags on the polished hardwood floor, a vast serenity of space all around them. He had been surprised when Xavier showed them here, although not surprised the man didn’t want him under the same roof. Dean had stayed hushed, immediately aware this private domain was Xavier’s own. The long room they were in took up the whole side of the building, austere and Spartan, the white walls and severe lines a complete contrast to the riot of color and coziness in the Victorian. There was floor to ceiling glass again—the transparent inner wall revealing a courtyard and the U-shape of the building. To one side was Xavier’s forge, the other side his workshop, the small square of earth between them devoid of the expected garden, unsculpted land flowing inward instead, expanding out seamlessly to the horizon in the distance, like someone had framed the sky. From where he lay he could look out and see the stars, dusted across the night far above, like gazing into infinity.

Sam shifted in his bedroll beside him, staring, like him, at the winking constellations above.

“Do you really think it’s possible? To retire?”

And he was 19 again, lying there in the dark, listening to Sam tell him about SATs and ACTs, a jumble of letters and scholarship applications, listening to Sam talk about The Time Beyond, going off to college, and getting away from all this.

“Looks like.”

This house, this place, the jagged mountains beyond the plains, cradling the valleys where the meadows bloomed, it felt enduring and unchangeable, as if it could withstand all comers.

“God.” Sam mused out loud, and somehow Sam even sounded 15 again, his voice touched with hopes and dreams, just speaking without really thinking about his words, talking to his big brother again. “I wonder what that’s like.”

Dean wondered too, watching Sam at dinner, Sam and Kim filling in the blanks with conversation until Toby chimed in, unable to help himself, and they rolled right along, carrying the tide with only an occasional word needed from Xavier or Zee or himself. They found things to talk about, the world and waffles and the Wyoming winters, poltergeists and that lame-ass imp that had plagued them to no end in Pensacola, seeing the Grand Canyon and the Four Corners, and it was so strange, how easy it all was, with Kim being mostly a civilian. And he wondered, watching Sam laugh again, if this was what Sam had been like at Stanford, before Sam got dragged back into the life, weighted down by blood and by destiny, by Letters and by Legacy, by his family and by his brother.

“I think Toby will be okay here.” Sam offered into his silence, tentative and a little soft, like Sam was trying to apply gauze to an open wound without hurting him.

“Mmm.”

“You’ve got to admit, some of their wards are pretty…” and Sam chuckled, because he could afford to be amused now, “unique.”

It had been less fun, finding out about those wards the hard way, by sitting on them. A buzzy jolt that had sent him shooting straight off the couch and brought Sam to his side, hand on his arm, the living room suddenly thick with tension and too full of hunters and a demon and one small child, before like a sunbeam Kim burst in from the kitchen, saying, “Oops, not that cushion, Dean. I’ve been working on it, see here?” and she pointed to a symbol he recognized, embroidered and lost among the flowers and the leaves woven into the deep red of the heavy upholstery fabric. She looked at him, green eyes a shade darker than his own, wide with caring and either courageously or idiotically secure in her own home, took him by the hand over the tenseness in Sam’s arm, and dragged him to a different seat, talking all the while. “I thought I got them all, but obviously, I missed one. Are you okay?”

He had nodded mutely. Stupidly.

“Good. Then sit.” A little quirk of smile touched her lips. “But, you know, _here_.” She pointed, and he sat, and her smile widened before she went on. “Xavier will give you guys the grand tour in a while, but let’s have a…”she looked at him shrewdly, “beer first, yeah? It’s a long drive from town.”

He had looked over at Xavier then, astounded and unable to help himself, as Kim dove back into the kitchen for said beers. Optimism was a freak of nature. It had been beaten out of him, out of everyone he knew except…

Sam folded down beside him, inspecting the cushion before he sat, his voice low. “Dude.”

He shook his head, a small motion. _I’m good._ _I’m fine._

Sam breathed.

The two _other_ hunters across the room hadn’t moved during this entire exchange, but he felt them, felt weirdly outnumbered when he had faced down a roomful of demons easily for less. Then Toby plopped himself down on his other side, close enough to lean against him, and Xavier just watched him, watched them, those clear gray eyes assessing and cataloguing, looking for the chinks in his armor to file away for future use.

Zee stayed where she was. He didn’t miss the way her feet were braced, so she could have moved in either direction.

“He’ll have to be home schooled, of course. Kim said they have get together activities for all the home-schooled kids in the area a couple times a month so they get some social time.”

Sam’s mulling voice interrupted his thoughts, and _really?_ _School_? That was what Sam was thinking about?

Sam’s sleeping bag rustled as Sam turned slightly to face him.

“He’ll be okay, Dean.”

_Okay_ , if the angels steered clear, if no monsters showed, if not!Judgment Day didn’t happen, if the world didn’t end, if someday he didn’t go Dark Side and come back through here on a rampage. There were a lot of _ifs_ in that. And somehow Sam was looking past all that, plotting Toby’s education and mentally enrolling him in AP classes or something. Building the kid a future.

In The Time Beyond.

Was there one?

For a moment he wondered who was going to teach the kid all the really useful stuff, like how to hotwire a car in a pinch, how to take care of his wheels (because Zee still had that dent in her front fender and it was slowly driving him nuts), and how to play Texas Hold ‘em in a hustle, because no one in their right mind was going to get into a poker game with Assassin Ninjas One and Two. He wondered who was going to rent all the Chuck Norris films, which he still considered necessary even if Xavier was the Real Deal. 

Sam turned back over and was staring up into the night again.

“We can even swing by and see him sometime. Visit, you know?”

And how would that work? There was no place for the likes of him in The Time Beyond. There really hadn’t been the first time, when Sam had gotten on that bus headed for California, and there certainly wasn’t going to be now.

Evidently the same thing finally occurred to Sam, belatedly, slowly, putting the years heavily back in Sam’s voice. “I mean, after we take care of Ramiel. We’ll just swing by to check in on him, right?”

Was that a question?

“Yeah, Sammy. We’ll do that. After we put a period to that douchebag archangel, we’ll do that.”

******

He was up with the sound of movement and the morning sun, although “up” was a bit of a misnomer since he hadn’t really slept. He’d laid still watching the stars shift over the earth and the first rays of dawn creep across the land, listening to Sam’s slow breathing, dreaming a good dream for once, a faint smile on Sam’s face. Carefully he eased himself out of his sleeping bag and crept towards the dojo’s doors, slipping out onto the deck/porch to see where the faint noise was coming from.

In the gray golden dawn where sunlight was still mist, Zee and Xavier were hauling straw figures into the open space between the house and the dojo, setting them up in a line along the edge of the field. They were both wearing long swords at their sides, full on ninja mode again, and looking carelessly normal about it.

There was the creak of a footstep behind him as Sam came out of the dojo.

“What’s up?”

Dean nodded in the direction of the two figures.

Sam squinted and stayed silent, standing at his shoulder behind him.

The last straw figure placed, Zee and Xavier walked back to the first. He hadn’t seen her use her long samurai sword since that first encounter in Dolgeville, and he’d forgotten—not how lethal she was, that was kind of hard to forget—but how fast she was with it. He barely saw her draw before she was moving, steel slicing clean through the straw figure’s knees, without stopping traversing a diagonal line up, arcing and reversing down again, a mess of straw and straw limbs flying off everywhere and the straw man was in five pieces on the ground before he could say, “Hot damn.”

“Hot damn.” Sam said from behind him.

There was the sound of someone running across the gap between the house and the dojo as Toby came flying up and wrapped arms around him before he knew it. Quick as he did it, Toby let go.

“No one was around. I thought you guys had already left.” The kid said by way of explanation and scrubbed his hands awkwardly on his jeans, looking down at his feet.

“Without saying goodbye? Come on. You know better than that. Look, we’re watching the show.” He reached out and turned Toby’s attention to the practice field with a hand on his shoulder.

There was a silent conferral going on, Zee and Xavier looking down at the straw limbs scattered in a two-foot circle on the ground.

Then Xavier stepped back. Xavier paused, a moment of absolute, deceptively perfect stillness before his sword came flashing out, up-down-and-low across, the speed and power behind each stroke buzzing through the air and it was all over before Dean could even breathe.

And the straw man just stood there, like nothing happened.

A second ticked by.

The hay mannequin crumbled to the ground in six tidy pieces.

Sam let out a soundless whistle.

“Remind me not to piss him off.”

Zee walked over to the pieces on the ground and examined them. From here Dean could see her frown. She made a distance gesture with both hands, a question that Xavier considered, before she kicked an arm piece away so that it landed a few feet away from the main pile, demonstrating what she wanted.

Zombies. She was looking for a way to hack up those enhanced vampire-demon-monster-eating zombies and get the pieces far enough apart so they couldn’t reassemble before she could light ‘em up.

Fuck.

Toby looked up at him with a silent question when Dean’s hand tightened unconsciously on the boy’s shoulder. He hauled in a breath, pasted a reassuring smile on his face, and eased up on his grip, while still swearing voluminously in his head.

_“Roy and Jerry died. Hunting something, Garth wasn’t sure what, up in a little town just past Madison. Garth said it’s bad out there.”_

_Jerome, Christa, Ralph. Jim and Mandy. Travis._ Even accounting for Travis’ inability to find his ass with both hands looking, the headcount of hunters biting the dust was way higher than it ought to be.

Xavier moved over to the third straw figure. What followed was as brief as it was brutal, just sheer raw strength coupled with exquisite precision. Straw body parts went sailing every which way and the swordsmith was sheathing his sword before the last part had even hit the ground.

“Damn.” Sam breathed. “Wonder if that would work with a machete.”

Dean hauled in another breath. Suddenly hunting poltergeists and imps and fucking garden gnomes didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all. Sam had no idea—none—what it was like, Alfie, to have Alfie in his head, to feel Alfie’s desperate and confused pain, the insane edge of Alfie’s never ending hunger, to be surrounded by it, consumed by it, driven by it. And if Dean had his way, Sam never would. Sam had had enough in his life, Lucifer and Gadreel in his head, Azazeal’s blood in his veins.

Except he knew Sam. He knew the way Sam’s mind worked. This was the kid whose idea of a solution to the apocalypse was to body jump Lucifer into the cage to save the world. Now that Sam had gotten a whiff of the bigger picture, he knew, somewhere in Sam’s noggin was something ticking away, working on the problem of Ramiel and the Book of Life, and there was a snowball’s chance in Hell of talking Sam back to the safety of the bunker and sitting this one out. He could keep the zombies off Sam’s back, until the day he became the problem, full on Darth Vader with a chokehold around Sam’s neck, the First Blade comfortably bloody in his hand, and…

Dean stopped thinking.

The sun had cleared the edge of the earth. Bright rays glared off the high polish of Zee’s steel blade as she drew. He was seeing the practice field in front of him with fixed eyes, everything lagging like slow motion, because in his mind he was in Cain’s kitchen again, the Father of Murder’s grip hard on his arm, keen blue eyes piercing on his face, tormented like Hell lived in Cain’s soul. Bitterly understanding at last the thing that drove the promise Cain had extracted from him before divulging the First Blade’s location, Cain’s voice low and ringing with conviction.

“ _When I call you – and I_ will _call – you come find me and use the Blade on me._ ”


	50. The Quiet Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Tabache.

This should have been easy, knowing Toby would be safe here, as safe as she could make him. The right thing to do was what she was doing now, setting her duffel down in the Durango, moving on to the next job, and she should have done this yesterday, disregarding Kim’s insistence that they stay the night. She’d stayed far too long already. 

It should have been simple to take the new wakizashi from Xavier’s hand, except Xavier held on to it, cool gray eyes sharp on her face.

He glanced once at the Impala behind them.

“Be careful.”

She nodded. She took the replacement short sword from him, and racked it into its place next to the katana. The back of the Durango seemed strangely empty, like it was missing a small backpack. All of Toby’s stuff had fit into that backpack easily, and that was no childhood.

She held herself still, keeping one hand on the hatch of the SUV, aware of Toby watching her from where he stood by the white picket fence, Kim’s hand reassuringly on his shoulder. All it would take was a tilt of her head and he’d be off, running back up to the house to get his gear, probably all packed up and ready to go, hoping against hope that she’d change her mind. She could set the backpack into that empty space, and they’d be off, diners and fireworks and everything in between, and they could make a go of it while the world crumbled around them, because no place was truly safe anyway, was it?

Slowly she brought the hatch down, closing it with a soft thump.

She turned to find Dean watching her, hands tucked into his pockets, waiting for a cue. He straightened and Xavier shifted warily, and _this_ , _this_ was reality, a tenuous truce at best, one that couldn’t last forever. She’d pushed her luck too far already. She met that waiting green-eyed gaze silently.

_It’s time._

It was Sam that took the first step.

“Hey Toby.” Sam crouched down, sober and curiously awkward as he extended his hand. With a glance at Kim for permission, Sam added. “You call us if there’s ever anything, anything at all, alright?”

Toby’s hand was engulfed in Sam’s larger one, but there was nothing childish about Toby’s firm handshake or the stern way he met Sam’s eyes.

“K.”

Sam let go of Toby’s hand and stood up as Dean came alongside him, kneeling down on one knee.

“Hey, tiger.”

Toby bit his lips inwards, locked down his expression, and stuck out his hand again.

Dean simply pulled Toby in to him, and wrapped him up in a bear hug.

Toby held on desperately, burying his face in Dean’s jacket, reluctant to let go. They stayed that way for a moment, the boy and the demon, the most unlikely thing, _impossible_ according to everything she knew, before Toby pulled back as Dean stood, ruffling Toby’s hair with a firm nod of encouragement and turning Toby her way.

Toby dragged his feet in the dirt the few short steps from the fence to the rear of the Durango. He stood before her, eyeing the ground with his hands behind him. She knelt down on one knee, as she had done so many times before, so she would be on eye level with him.

Seconds ticked by before Toby looked up. He stuck a fisted hand out at her, a long loop of leather dangling down between his fingers.

“My dad gave me this. He said it would keep me safe.” Toby stared at her hard, fierce determination in the set of his face. “I want you to take it.”

He opened his hand to reveal the amulet he always wore next to the dog tags around his neck.

“Xavier helped me string it. He said it’s the same leather on your sword handle.”

She’d never been good with words and she wasn’t good at them now. The tightness in her throat would have prevented her from speaking anyway. She bowed her head to control the moisture in her eyes, and Toby looped the leather strap over her bent head and let it slip down around her neck. The small bit of worked metal rested cool against her skin when she tucked it underneath her turtleneck, and she tried to think of something to say but there was nothing, except the tightness of her arms around the kid and the death grip he now had around her neck, clinging on for dear life. 

It took a while to let go. She straightened and Toby stepped back with a deep but quaky breath. She managed something that felt like it might be a smile. Toby looked steadily back at her, his shoulders squared and solemn. In that moment she caught a glimpse of the man he would one day become, and she let go of the breath she’d been holding.

He’d be okay.

She stood and smiled more firmly, her fingertips on the amulet beneath her shirt before she turned to go.

It was time to hit the road.


	51. Dream On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles is from song by Aerosmith.

She lingered a little too long when they stopped for gas. There was only one road out of Xavier’s, and it was _habit_ , pulling into a gas station behind the Impala on the long miles to nowhere. She didn’t have a destination in mind, not yet. And that hesitation was what gave Sam time to lean in through her passenger side window.

“Hey.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“So.” Sam smiled at her. She waited out that golden retriever smile with a skeptical silence, because she’d seen Sam’s Obi Wan act. Completely unfazed by her skepticism, Sam powered on. “Garth said there may be a job down in Utah. A bunch of missing person cases that he thinks might be zombie-related. We could use a hand.”

Her eyebrows shot up. She sketched a look towards the Impala, where a bonafide _Knight of Hell_ was replacing the gas cap like an ordinary human being, and refrained from pointing out that there was no way on God’s green earth that _Dean Winchester_ would need help hunting anything, but that wasn’t what Sam was talking about, was it?

Dean flicked a look their way, his expression tight and closed. Like he knew what Sam was up to, and what Sam wanted.

She should leave. There was no Toby to protect anymore. She had no need of the boys and the whirlwind of disaster they brought with them.

Sam put his hands on her window and looked hopeful, the expression on his face reminiscent of a Labrador.

Dammit.

“ _Fine_.”

Sam beamed. “Great. So we’ll pick up 80 west in Rawlins?”

She nodded. It was the fastest way, usually. Sam beamed again, backing his head out of her car now that he’d gotten what he wanted. She rolled the window up behind him, avoiding a glance at the hollow emptiness of the backseat.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, ignoring the unfamiliar weight of Toby’s amulet against her collarbone. 

A job was probably just the thing she needed anyway.

******

He was following the Durango south, and he didn’t know how Sam had pulled _that_ off. But Sam seemed pleased, and it seemed settled. There was a job. She was a hunter. It wasn’t really like he could tell her not to come.

And now he was standing on a red dirt hillside south of the Great Salt Lake, staring up at a giant monstrosity of a fortress halfway up the slope, a rat maze of crumbling concrete and rebar, covered over with graffiti. 

“It’s an old tin mill.” Sam offered by way of explanation. “A lot of the soil and the water around here,“ Sam nodded towards the murky spring below them, “test positive for high levels of lead and arsenic.”

Great. So it was a death trap in more ways than one. Dean rotated his shoulder to loosen it, preparing to teleport into it when Zee interrupted sharply, “How many?”

Sam blanched, even though Sam knew damned well why Garth had sent _them_ on this job. He was the best choice—undead to undead, as it were—and Sam wanted to ignore that. Still, he closed his eyes so Sam wouldn’t see the blackness in them, and _reached_ , casting his senses outward and uphill, feeling for the stench of rot.

“Six.” He answered, before he opened his eyes. “There’s six of them. They’re in the back corner.” He shook his head to clear his mouth of the aftertaste, damp and decay and death. When he opened his eyes again, Sam was standing in front of him, both of their machetes in Sam’s hands.

“Here.” Sam offered him one of the newly sharpened machetes, hilt first.

Dean stiffened. He should have known Sam had some half-cocked notion like this in the works. It was why Sam wanted backup, when they obviously didn’t need any.

“Dean.” Sam said again, waggling the machete gently by the blade, insistent. “There’s three of us, and you said only six of them. We can handle it. You don’t have to…” Sam gestured at the air, not saying _the First Blade._

“No.” He said. “These are _zombies_ , Sam. Power hungry, reassembling zombies. I’ll just…”

“Maybe we don’t need to go up there at all.” Zee interrupted, studying him thoughtfully. “We can draw them out. Those zombies in Dolgeville—in the woods—they were supposed to be looking for Toby. But they got sidetracked, didn’t they?”

She raised a pointed eyebrow at him. 

Dean scowled, because the Dolgeville zombies had zeroed in on him like he was a five star Vegas buffet. If it was _powers_ that the zombies craved, then yeah, he was a zombie magnet. The only reason the six up there weren’t pouring down the hill now was because they couldn’t sense him, and the only reason for that he could think of, was that hex bag she had given him was _hiding_ him. He stared at her, stunned.

“ _One of us_ is a monster magnet.” She said. “Didn’t hurt to cover all the bases.”

He dug into his pocket for the small leather pouch and dug it out. His fingers closed tight around it, because without it—

He held her gaze for another long second. If he decided to teleport into the zombie fray solo anyway, they couldn’t stop him. But there was a risk to that too, and she knew it, because she wasn’t Sam. She was here, either way, with him or _for_ him, and that steely look said it was his choice.

With a deep breath he flicked the small bit of cowhide to her, and grabbed the machete Sam was still waggling at him before he could think twice. Before he could be bowled over by the avalanche of _noise_ , rushing in like a riptide from all directions, swirling to fill the void. _Hunger_ , sharp and intolerable, swamped him as the undead in the mill woke up to his presence. Beyond that, the chatter of _gray things, gray things_ , picking away at the periphery of his awareness, all those people in town a few miles north, scratching, scratching, screeching like nails on chalkboard. And right beside him, _loud_ , Sam, Sam’s hopes and Sam’s desperation, anxious and bitter, lashing like barbed wire across his skin.

The Mark on his forearm burned. An itch crawled across his palm, whispering for silence, whispering for The First Blade. His knuckles were white on the machete’s handle. There was gray in his vision and gray in his heart, the world stripped of color and scratchy with static and he couldn’t _think_. The machete trembled with the force of his grip. He focused on to the singular spot of stillness near him, amber clear, because she hadn’t moved, and he couldn’t hear her. He stepped closer and tried to shut everything else out.

His jaw clenched. He breathed through his nose and focused on his count. He felt the putrid sense of rot come running down the hill.

“They’re coming. Get back!”

He stepped out onto the road, machete raised. Sam stepped up stubbornly beside him, shoulder to his shoulder. He gripped harder onto the plain plastic handle in his hand, and stared at the brightness of the graffiti on the mill’s crumbling walls. The slither of Zee drawing her sword sliced through the incessant noise. The reds and browns of the earth and the blue of the sky flooded in slowly, Sam by his side, when the first zombie popped into existence in front of them, as if it had teleported there.

Dean swore. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t sensed anything demonic about them, and he should have been able to.

His breath misted as he swung the machete. The emaciated zombie in front of him shimmered, then _flickered out_ with a curiously electrical zap. His machete passed through a fat lot of _nothing_ , and the momentum of his swing sent him crashing sideways into Sam. The zombie reappeared, and bared its rotten teeth at him in the creepy ass approximation of a grin.

“THEY’RE _GHOSTS_????? _HOW THE FUCK CAN THEY BE ZOMBIES_ AND _GHOSTS_????”

The double huff of Sam ducking and rolling to avoid Casper’s grabbing hands was his only answer. He scrambled backward when Casper reached for him, because the sharp claws raking down his arm were not ghostly at all, and he swung his useless machete through Casper again. The zombie-ghosts flickered in around him, and flickered out again when he swung through them. Behind him he heard Zee’s sword whistle through the air—again, uselessly, because it was just plain frickin’ steel—followed by the crunch of gravel that was Sam’s frantic scramble towards the Impala’s trunk.

And there was now a ring of starving ghost-zombies gathered all around him and Zee, leering hungrily at him, because oh right, he was _friggin’_ bait.

He cursed under his breath. “ _SAM!!_ ” He hollered, because they needed iron, and they needed it now. He turned a complete circle, Zee turning with him, her back solidly against him. They were completely blocked in. He batted futilely at a Casperina, empty white eyes, stringy hair and grabby hands of the worst kind. He couldn’t even see a sliver of daylight where he could shove Zee through to safety. 

“GUYS! _DOWN!_ ”

He heard the click of the shotgun closing an instant before Sam fired. He grabbed onto Zee, sliding one arm around her waist and pulling, securing her into the shelter of his jacket, ignoring her angry hiss and the jab of her elbow into his ribs, trying to pull out of his grasp. He yanked her closer, because there was barely a second to duck his head over hers, before the spray of rock salt seared a hot trail across the back of his neck, fiery holes peppering his back, burning through his jacket down to his skin. He grunted and breathed harshly through his nose, waiting for the pain to pass. When it dulled enough, he looked up to see clear space around them, the rock salt having done its number on the Caspers.

He released the pissed-off ninja in his arms.

“ _Go._ ” He gave her a shove towards Sam. He dropped the useless machete in his hand, fingers stretching, his vision already dimming to gray, when she unexpectedly stopped, and whipped around to face him, fiery ire in her eyes.

“ _No._ ” Her fingers clamped down on his right arm, biting down into the Mark. “ _Salt and burn, Dumbo._ Rock salt and flare gun, _together.”_

He opened his mouth to protest, because he wasn’t sure that would work. It’d be better if he took care of this, and she just needed to get out of his way.

“ _DEAN!_ ”

Without even waiting for him to answer, Sam lobbed their flare gun at him, the shotgun cradled in Sam’s other arm. He caught the flare gun just to avoid getting hit in the head with it, and glared at the stubborn-ass ninja before him, and at Sam, and at that freaky synchronized thinking thing she and Sam were doing.

~zzzzap~

He spun on his heel, the hand not holding the flare gun pushing Zee so she was behind him, aiming and firing at the incoming because the gun was already in his hand. The boom of Sam’s shotgun matched him, and with a puff of blue-lit fire, the startled ghost-zombie burst into smoky flames.

“HEADS UP!”

Sam lobbed their backup flare to him. He ditched the empty gun in his hand, caught the backup, turning and firing as Sam fired. A package of cartridges came sailing through the air but not to him. Zee caught it one-handed, had it opened, the first gun reloaded and slapped back in his hand before he could so much as say boo.

He looked at the reloaded flare gun in his hand blankly. Was this actually working?

~zzzzap~

He caught Sam’s eye, and it was suddenly easy, really, to answer that brief grin that flashed across Sam’s face. He raised his gun, and fired when Sam fired, old habits kicking in. Without looking back, he put his hand out behind him, feeling the swap-out of a reloaded gun against his palm. And it seemed like it should have taken longer than it did before Sam was asking, “Was that all of them?”

He felt outward, and felt nothing besides Sam.

“Yeah.”

“We should call Garth.” Sam gestured at the smoking piles of ash. “If their powers are always changing depending on what they ate, no wonder the others are having trouble with them.”

He nodded absently. The back of his neck prickled. He turned around.

“What?”

She was glaring at him, at the back of his neck, as if the angry red welt streaking across his skin offended her personally. Her gaze skimmed up to his cheek, where he could feel the sting of another burn. It was just rock salt, and he was a demon, and what did she expect? With a careless thought he fixed it, everything as good as new again. He opened his mouth to tell her just that, when she stepped into his space and traced a finger over his newly healed skin.

He froze.

“You’re an idiot.” She informed him bluntly.

He could feel the touch all the way down to his toes. He held his breath, to keep himself from doing what he wanted to do. He didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved when she moved the finger against his skin and poked him in the chest with it.

“It’s _rock. salt_.” She bit the words out with spaces as if he were a particular brand of slow. “And I’m well aware of how to bloody _duck_. Next time…”

_Next time?_

“… _can the heroics_.”

Fire. He wanted a taste of it. He licked his lips and watched her watching him, the bloom of awareness sudden in her eyes. Hastily she stepped back, as if it would lessen the building charge, and it really didn’t. It was folly, all of this, all of this that Sam was trying to engineer, and he took a step back himself, trying to tamp down his not-heart racing in his chest.

“Right.” He said lamely, and tried not to smile like a fool. “Next time.”


	52. Angels Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Breaking Benjamin.

It’d been a rough week.

He slid into the seat next to Zee, because that was what they did now. Apparently. Sam had parked his ass squarely in the middle of the bench over on his side of the diner table—deliberately, Dean was sure—and he leveled Sam a glare. He couldn’t tell Sam that it was unnerving, having to sit there through the entirety of a meal, knowing she was right there but only able to _sense_ her with his human senses. To feel the heat and warmth she radiated by his side, to smell the scent of clean skin and soap with his every breath. Her hair was still damp from when she had washed it, and he wanted to trace the damp tendril that curled against her neck.

He pulled his eyes away by sheer will.

“How’s the ankle?”

She slanted him a sideways glance and shrugged.

He scowled at the carelessness in that shrug. Garth had traipsed them from one job to another over the last week, and the one thing he had learned was that she took too many chances. She’d shoved Sam out of the way when a watery hand reached up from the depths of Pyramid Lake, her blade already out on a downward arc before Sam had managed a backward step, one swipe through fingers made of _water_ that latched on to _her_ ankle and pulled _her_ under before he could even say boo. And then it’d taken him precious minutes to find her, swimming blind in the depths of the lake. It’d been too close a call, and all she did was _shrug_.

“Maybe holy oil, next time.” Sam was saying. “I mean, you can’t cut water into pieces, and water won’t burn. But holy oil would probably do it.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He answered absently.

“Well, well. That’s very commendable of you, Dean.”

He jerked up at the vaguely familiar voice, startled by Inias standing right next to the table—and _how the hell had Scruffy managed to creep up on him like that??_

Inias’ eyes flashed a glowing white.

Not angel blue. That wasn’t Inias.

_Shit._

He had his palm open for the First Blade when a steak knife on the table started to spin.

“Shall we play spin the knife, Dean?” Whoever-it-was smiled at him. “Who will you save first, hmm? Sam? The girl?”

The taunt was familiar. He’d last heard it in a church in Geary.

_Fallen._

“ _Suriel._ ” He snarled, remembering the other name Cas had mentioned. “Your buddy Arkas sends his greetings. Oh wait. That’s right. He can’t, because he’s a smear on the road right about now. You sure you want to try your luck?”

“Ah. Yes. That’s why we hitched a ride this time, Dean. You wouldn’t want to hurt poor hapless Inias, would you? He’s still in here—sort of. His eggs are a bit scrambled, but that’s the cost of doing business. You can have him back when we’re done.” Suriel made a careless gesture at Sam, and Sam slid helplessly sideways in his seat, involuntarily making room for Suriel.

Suriel seated himself and smiled at the rapidly spinning knife. “Your restraint is remarkable, Dean. We thought you’d be further along. I mean, really, messing around with holy oil when you have the First Blade, while how many of your hunter buddies are biting the dust?”

Besides Suriel Sam stiffened. He hadn’t asked what had gone down when Sam had talked to Garth this morning, or yesterday morning, or the morning before that. He hadn’t asked, while they’d been fooling around, doing this thing that Sam wanted to do, and not doing their _job_.

“Dean.” Sam got out. “It’s…”

“Bad?” Suriel injected. “So bad. Your friends are getting killed out there, Dean. And yet you’re just sitting here, enjoying a meal. But wait. That’s what usually happens to your friends anyways, isn’t it, Dean? So I guess it’s just business as usual for you.”

The bastard was baiting him, and it would have worked, except he’d heard all this once before. He leaned back casually in his seat.

“Demon.” He said coolly. “We don’t do friends. Besides, your buddy Arkas already tried that line. Don’t you have any new tricks up your sleeve?”

Suriel smiled. “Oh, but we do. It was a surprise to us, but seeing how you’re so bent on doing things the good old-fashioned human way, we decided to help with that. We can tell you how to take that Mark off your arm so you can be a real boy again.”

Dean scoffed. “And why the hell would I want that?”

“You’re a cool customer, Dean. I like it. But there’ll come a time when you’ll want that Mark off your arm.” Suriel reached across the table and stole the burger off his plate. “And Ramiel wants you to remember that there is always hope for those who seek it.”

Suriel took a bite of his burger, releasing a faint whiff of eggs gone south.

Beside him Zee tensed. He didn’t start when he felt her right hand slide over his under the table, fingers moving over his left palm, careful and precise—press press tap tap. He recognized the rhythm of it, morse code.

_Z_.

Second letter, _o._

_m._

He glanced sharply at Zee. That wasn’t possible.

The look he got back was sharp and irritated. She was sure.

Suriel shoved the rest of the burger into his mouth.

Angels didn’t eat. But zombies... and Suriel was chomping down on his burger like it was the best thing ever in between stealing spoonfuls of potato salad off Sam’s plate.

“So what do you say, Dean?” Suriel asked around a mouthful of potato. “It’s a win-win. We get to spread the word of Hope, and you get to be a real boy again. We won’t even take it personally if you go right back to fighting us the human way, like the stubborn soul you are.”

He stared harder at Suriel, whatever he was.

“Yeah. Think I’ll pass.”

Suriel turned to the softer target, or maybe the one who had been his mark all along _._ Sam, with his overly attentive ears and the over eager eyes, lapping up the snake oil the _Fallen_ was selling.

“Think about it. All the upsides are yours. We can take the Mark off Dean’s arm, and call it square. You’ll just be ordinary old pains-in-the-asses.” Suriel eyed him shrewdly. “Nothing special. No pressing reason to focus on you. Or,” Suriel’s eyes flicked to the amulet around Zee’s neck. “…yours.”

_Toby_.

He tensed, feeling Zee’s fingers tightening over his fisted hand. He leaned forward so abruptly that Suriel jerked back. 

“ _You leave the kid alone._ ”

The _Fallen_ shrugged. “For now. Think about it, Dean, and come find us when you’re ready. To show you our word’s good, here’s Inias back, as promised. I would have kept him, entertainment value and all, but the Boss insisted we return all items to sender. Your boy here,” Suriel tapped his own skull, Inias’ skull, “showed an amazing amount of loyalty to his commander. Scrubbed his own noggin rather than give away Castiel’s twenty. Impressive, but foolish. Because you know what that leaves you with?” Suriel grinned. “A walking talking blob of grace, with no CPU. Bit of a ticking bomb, those.” Suriel stood. “So, you know, best of luck.”

Suriel tipped his head back. _Smoke_ , not grace, poured out of his mouth, only it was a bright white, _glowing_ smoke that _burned_. Dean hissed, jerking back, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. The bright whiteness seared against his skin, against the insides of his eyelids. It boiled down his throat like the brightness of grace and soul, tinged with the heavy reek of sulfur. He scrambled backward as far as the bench seat would allow, needing to get away from the heated brightness, everything a swirl of unbearable heat and scalding pain until Zee’s hand closed on his elbow, anchoring him to the present. He cracked one eye open cautiously, to see Sam staring at him in shock. He brought one hand up to wipe at his eyes, and his hand came away wet with blood.

“What…the hell…was _THAT_?”

Sam shook his head with concern. “It sure as hell wasn’t an angel. It smelled like sulfur. But that wasn’t,” and Sam paused, looking across at him to verify, “a demon either.”

No shit. The white smoke may have been smoke, and it may have smelled like sulfur, but it was no demon. Whatever they had done—the Fallen—Suriel wasn’t like Arkas at all. It had felt like when he’d run into Alfie in his head, the nuclear charge of a human soul, _bright_ , _bright_ _and he couldn’t see_ , laced over with the brilliance of an angel’s grace, tumbled into the murkiness that was demon smoke. Whatever it was, he could barely look at it. And it was powerful enough to body-jack an actual angel.

Inias, the _real_ Inias, slumped sideways into Sam’s hastily outstretched arms.

“BaMaHmmm.” Inias muttered groggily. “BaghmahumMa.”

What the? “Is that Enochian? Is he speaking Enochian?”

Sam frowned.

“No Dean, I think that’s just…gibberish.”

Dean let his eyes go dark cautiously as he inspected the scruffy, slumped over angel. The shredded feathers on still bleeding wings, and grace, real grace, far too bright for him to stare too long at, pulsed within Inias’ thin frame. Pulsed dangerously, like a reactor about to blow. Sensing his attention, Inias turned towards him. _Seeing_ him, Inias curled his lip disdainfully, one palm coming up open and glowing.

Sam yanked on Inias’ arm.

“ _INIAS._ ” Sam commanded urgently. “Look at me. Look at _me_. We’re friends, remember?” Sam grabbed the glowing angel by the cheeks and forcefully turned Inias’ head. It was a stupid move, but Sam was human, and Inias’ palm dimmed down to human skin.

Sam shook Inias gently. “Hey there. Hey, Inias. Do you remember me? It’s Sam. Sam Winchester.”

Inias stared at Sam blankly, blue eyes wide without recognition. “MmmmblarghgumMhmm.” Inias garbled out, still glowing on-and-off erratically. “Messblarghage.”

Inias’ eyes rolled back up in his head and he blinked out like a light.

******

“We’ve got to get him out of here.” She bumped against Dean when Dean didn’t move. He was stiff and tense and she nudged him again. 

“Yeah.” Dean said finally, and shook himself. “Sam.”

Sam was already half-shouldering, half-lifting Inias out of the seat, one of Inias’ arms looped over Sam’s shoulders. Dean moved forward to pick up the slack. His jaw clenched tight when Inias flinched away, even in his unconscious state, but he ducked under Inias’ other arm anyway.

Zee stood up behind him. She smiled at the approaching waitress, a vague gesture with her hand to suggest their party had been crashed by their very drunk friend, and pulled out a hefty tip to distract from the fact that there was still a halo of light flickering around Inias in a very not-normal way.

“Fuck.” Dean muttered under his breath. “Just how much of his hard drive did he erase?”

“Too much.” Sam replied grimly, flinching as a surge of grace arced between Inias’ fingers, scorching against his skin. Between them the brothers manhandled Inias out the door of the diner and into the cool night. Sam glanced around the half full parking lot, worrying at his lower lip.

“Dean.” Sam started.

“Yeah, I know.”

The parking lot was hemmed in by the diner on one side and by the Lazy Laguna Motel on the other. She didn’t know what the blast radius for an angelic meltdown was, but smack in the middle of Fernley was probably a bad place to find out. The boys dragged Inias between them over to the Impala. Dean had the back door of the Chevy open, and was finagling Inias into the back seat, when the angel’s eyes snapped open.

Inias stared at Dean who was bending down to rearrange his legs into the car. Inias raised a glowing palm reflexively.

“DEAN!” 

Sam grabbed his brother by both shoulders and shoved Dean back. The glow of Inias’ palm subsided as Sam blocked Dean from the angel’s line of sight.

“ _What the_ …?”

“Dean, I think you should stay back.” Sam said cautiously over his shoulder, carefully positioning himself so he blocked Dean out of Inias’ view. “I think it’s not just that he doesn’t remember you. I don’t think he sees _you_.”

Inias saw only a demon.

Dean’s expression darkened. She put a hand on his bicep and pulled him back.

“Here. I’ll get him.”

Dean moved out of the way, his lips pursed tight. She ducked between Sam and the car door, reaching to grab Inias’ legs. She had no more than brushed against Inias’ knee when the angel sat straight up as if someone had flicked a switch. He seized her by the shoulders, fingers digging into her arms as he pulled her forward insistently, towards the deadly heat of angelic grace.

“ZEE!” Dean exclaimed sharply, latching on to her elbow and tugging backwards.

Sam let go of Inias too and grabbed her by both shoulders to hold her in place. Inias yanked harder. The heat of grace washed against her cheeks, and singed her hair. Inevitably, the angel won the tug-of-war where she was the rope, jerking her forward abruptly until his lips were right by her ear.

“You.”

Inias’ fingers flexed, digging into her arms.

“ _You_ … _you._ Needed……..someone….to…”

Inias shuddered, as if each word required untold effort to retrieve from hidden recesses.

“Tell…. Castiel…. Metatron … It’s….in the last …place on earth…….Ramiel will look.”

The double beep of a car being remotely unlocked was loud from somewhere behind her. Inias stood abruptly, ripping her out of Sam and Dean’s restraining grasps. The angel shoved her behind him, his head turned towards the sound, his whole body at attention like a Roman centurion.

Voices, a whole family of them, came rounding the corner, petering out into a startled silence when they spotted the glowing angel standing by the Impala.

Out of the clear night sky there rolled a low rumble of thunder, followed by Sam’s panicked “ _CRAP!”_

A sharp crack of lightening punctuated the air, touching down right by the Impala.

“LOOK, MOMMY. IT’S AN ANGEL!”

Zee scrambled to her knees, and ducked out from behind Inias’ burning halo, just in time to look across the parking lot and see a little girl with pigtails pointing at Inias, the parents gaping open-mouthed at the scruffy glowing guy in the blue suit. Which, angel or not, maybe the Chernobyl quality of the _glowing_ and the lightening strikes ought to have prompted some kind of flight response? Instead they just stood there, eyes wide and stupefied, and that was enough time for the girl to decide to run forward, a pointing finger and her arm extended in front of her delighted face, because angels were friendlies, weren’t they?

Inias raised a nuclear palm.

_Shit._

She was on her feet, running flat out, but Sam was faster. He caught the little girl up in his arms even as the mother belatedly screamed, “Maise, no! Maise! Stop! Maise!” as if that would do any good.

Sam ran towards the family’s automatically opened minivan with the girl in his arms. She veered around to the other side, grabbing the dad firmly by one shoulder and shoved him into the driver’s seat as Sam bundled the girl and the mom into the vehicle and slammed the minivan’s door closed.

“Go. GO!” She ordered. “Get out of here! NOW!”

In the minivan’s side mirror she saw the arcing spread of Inias’ skeletal wings, wide as shadows against the building behind them, loose feathers drifting down as bolts of lightening. Dean teleported in front of the luminescent angel, between Inias and the hapless family, squinting against the increasingly intense brightness, the First Blade held out in front of him.

Dean’s voice was a low, surprisingly even rumble.

“Inias. STOP.”

The man in the driver’s seat took one look at the horror movie scene behind him and fired up the engine. The minivan’s tires squealed as it took off. 

Finally.

She turned around, hand slipping to the angel blade in her jacket as Sam did the same.

Inias’ eyes flickered over Dean, over Sam, over her. Those burning eyes locked on her, like trying to hold on to a memory slipping. Uncertainty crossed the angel’s face, and Inias stared at the brilliance of his outstretched palm like he had no idea what it was doing there.

The minivan screeched around the corner onto the street. Inias stared at the fading taillights, then at his glowing palm. Horror dawned across the angel’s face. Inias curled the nuclear brightness of his hand in towards himself, as if he could shield it from everything around him. For a second the white brightness around the angel dimmed.

“Inias?” Sam said cautiously.

Inias gulped, his eyes flicking to Sam. Lightening danced down onto the pavement again. Inias’ eyes went to the old jawbone in Dean’s hand as his arm quivered, the glow starting up again, shimmering bright, bright enough to flatten everything within reach. The angel stared at the First Blade blindly, before finally looking up at the demon that held it.

Inias’ eyes widened, as if he saw something he hadn’t seen before.

Before she could move, before Sam could move, Inias took two steps forward and locked both of his glowing hands around Dean’s hand, tight on the hilt of the First Blade. Dean flinched back violently, a low growl rising in his throat, trying to pull his smoking hand out of Inias’ tight grip, and all it did was make Inias glow brighter. The angel stared hopefully at the demon, stared at him as comprehension dawned belatedly on Dean’s face, and Dean tried to wrest the ancient blade out of Inias’ hands, his lips desperately forming the words “NO, _NO_ ”, words that were blown to smithereens as Inias stepped forward and impaled himself upon the First Blade with a blinding burst of grace.


	53. Wanted Dead or Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Bon Jovi.

“Dean?”

In the explosive mist of white ash that was all that remained of Inias, Sam’s voice was tentative, careful eyes watching his brother, Dean’s hand still curled around the First Blade.

Dean straightened. The First Blade disappeared as he turned to face them.

Sam inhaled sharply and she let out the breath she had been holding. Dean’s eyes were green. Human. Somehow, some way, he’d not gone dark side, despite the fact he’d just vaporized another angel.

“Come on.” Dean said roughly. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

He held his right hand away from himself, as if it still burned, his face a grim mask of nothingness. She eyed him carefully, remember the broken in his voice as he tried to stop Inias. But he was right. They needed to get the hell out of here before anything else showed up.

She headed for the Durango.

“Nuh-uh.” Dean got in front of her, blocking her way. “You’re coming with me. Sam?”

She flicked him a hard glance, preparing to step around him. Almost nonchalantly he reached into his jacket pocket with his left hand and fished out a set of keys— _her_ spare keys, to which, _hey_ —and threw them over her head at Sam. She didn’t need to turn to know Sam caught them one-handed, moving around her to _her_ car’s driver side, and squeezed himself awkwardly into _her_ driver’s seat, levering the seat as far back as it would go to accommodate his ginormous frame.

Well…. _Fudge_.

She calculated her odds. Plan A to split had been sunk by the Mentalist in front of her. God knew what was after them, but without a rib-engraved angel invisibility cloak, she was a shining beacon in the night, and they would be better off with her as far away from them as possible.

“We’ll ward up.” Dean growled, glaring at her, still _fucking_ reading her mind.

She scowled at him. “I’m better off on my own.”

He blew out an exasperated breath. Before she could say how-do-you-do, he grasped her by the upper arm and hauled her bodily around the Impala to the passenger side, yanking open the passenger door.

“These are _angels_ , sweetheart. That heavy anti-demon mojo you’ve got going ain’t going to cut it.” 

She planted her feet. It was on the tip of her tongue to retort Cas hadn’t painted the lake house over for nothing, and she did have a decent memory, thank you, when he leaned in, one finger brushing over Toby’s amulet before tipping her chin up until she met his eyes. Her breath faltered under the intensity of his gaze.

“We promised the kid we’d watch your back. Don’t make liars of us.”

It was important to him, burning bright in sunlit green—that idiotic sense of responsibility, ignoring the impossible odds, needing to save people. 

Trying to be a damned hero.

Sam had fired up the Durango’s engine, and the idle purr of it waited patiently.

She held that determined green gaze until she could hold it no longer. This was folly. But his fingers beneath her chin didn’t budge, his gaze didn’t move, and his thumb moved against her skin, all-for-one and one-for-all, hell bent on leaving no man behind, even when he damned well should.

Breaking out of his grasp, she turned abruptly and slid into the Impala’s passenger seat.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of here.”

******

They drove west through the night, climbing again, deeper into the Sierras. Dean took a back road off a back road, twisting up into the mountains, tunneling deep in between giant sequoias that were deeper shadows against the clear night sky. At the end of the road there was an old log cabin, four thick walls keeping out the snow, and hunter sign on the door. They had to break the demon wards to get Dean inside, but they repainted those, and added Enochian sigils in fresh white paint on top. Sam raised both eyebrows when she went straight to the cabinet where the paints were kept, but Rufus always organized his cabins the same way. It saved time on looking for crap, and these back-up, back-up cabins were _back-ups_ for a reason.

Dean paced.

Their combined arsenal was piled in one corner of the room. Rock salt and shotguns, holy oil and flares and their entire assortment of stakes, rowan, oak, and Siberian alder, most of what was in the trunk of the Impala and the Durango, a completely random guess at what might slow down a thing that was white smoke bright enough to burn, and strong enough to hijack an angel.

She was sitting at the dining table across from Sam, her katana in her hands, because she needed something to do. Sam had his eyes fixed on his laptop, scrolling and intermittently clicking, while Dean paced.

She wiped the long blade down, and dusted it with powder. She wiped the powder off in turn, aware of Dean glaring at the sword in her hands.

“That’s useless against what we’re up against, you know.”

She flicked him a cool look and went back to inspecting the blade. He stomped around the room again, antsy and unsettled.

“Dude.” Sam muttered, not taking his eyes off his laptop. “Go clean a shotgun or something.”

Dean shot his brother a look full of aggravation.

“It’s a trick, Sammy. Trying to get me to get rid of the Mark—when I’m the only sure thing against the zombies, and God knows what else, maybe even that douchebag Ramiel himself. It _has_ to be a trick.”

“I know that, Dean.” Sam replied, sounding a bit tried. “That’s why I’m looking for the Book. If Inias managed to get to Metatron in lockup, then the Book has to be what Inias was talking about. If we get that closed, Heaven’s gates will be open again, and Ramiel won’t be able to create any more zombies. We just have to figure out where the last place on earth Ramiel would look might be.”

Dean threw up his hands. “And where the hell is that? It could be anywhere. Hell, with friggin’ angels, it could be in any _time_. Remember the phoenix?”

She looked up at that. “What do you mean, any _time_?”

“We needed phoenix ash for a thing. Long story, upshot is that Cas had to send us back to 1861 to get it. That wasn’t the first time he zapped us back either. The point is—Metatron had the angel tablet. His power was pretty much infinite. He could have stashed the Book anywhere. In any time.”

Sam huffed. “Yeah, but there’s nothing to stop Ramiel from just going to that same time and getting it back. No, Dean, I think it has to be something else. Some other kind of protection or disguise, or something.”

“Friggin’ Metatron and his riddles.” Dean grumbled, and went back to pacing.

She picked up a clean piece of rice paper and poured a little oil onto it. She ran it down the length of the katana, ignoring the restless clomp of Dean’s boots on the dusty wooden floor. _Time travel._ It shouldn’t have surprised her, considering the scale of the things the boys got themselves into.

“Here, this might be something.” Sam said suddenly, scrolling down with one thumb, reading as he went. “A Scroll of Remembrance, sometimes also called the Book of Life, age unknown, at … “ Sam’s forehead furrowed. “Oh.”

“What?” Dean walked over so he could read over Sam’s shoulder. “The Wodehouse Manor? What the hell’s that?”

Her hand paused midway down the blade.

Sam grimaced. “The Manor houses the Wodehouse Collection. At least part of it; the part that’s in this country, anyway. Rumor has it that the Wodehouse family has been steadily acquiring whatever biblical artifacts come on to the open market. Plus, they’re big sponsors of digs in the Middle East, especially around the Dead Sea.”

“What for?” Dean asked.

Sam huffed. “No one knows. They’ve been at it a long time.”

“And you think they might have the Book?” Dean asked skeptically.

Sam’s head tilted to one side in thought. “I wouldn’t put it past Metatron. The Manor’s not far from where he was holed up, and it is protected up the wahzoo.”

“So we’ll go have a look.”

“It’s not that easy. Word is, the Wodehouse Manor is kind of like the…” and Sam stopped abruptly there, and tried to bat signal his brother with his eyebrows. “…you know.”

She kept her head down, because she did know, and Sam didn’t need to know that she knew. There’d always been rumors about some new secret society, not to mention that upstart Cutbert Sinclair, horning in on the Families and their Collections. She fixed her gaze on the sword in her hands, because that was all in the past, and she wanted it to stay that way.

“Anyway, we’re not the first folks that have wanted a look at the Wodehouse collection.” Sam continued. “But the rumor is, no one who has set foot on the property without an express invitation from the Wodehouses has ever even made it as far as into the Manor.”

Dean’s brows knit together. “What? They all just drop dead?”

The katana was solid in her hands. She made her hands move, dragging the oiled paper against the blade’s flatness. The Wodehouses had been around a while, lineage going back to the Crusades, it was said, and their collection of Biblical artifacts was extensive. The Book of Life would be right up their alley.

“They disappear.”

Dean stopped in his tracks. The typing noises Sam was making ceased, and she could feel the full weight of their undivided curiosity. She inspected the sharp edge of her blade, and pointedly didn’t look up.

“It’s a _collection_.” She angled her blade into the light, checking for nicks. “No one builds a collection without some security measures. You’ve got the usual options: hide it, lock it, or curse it. Tutankhamun’s tomb ring a bell?”

Sam’s eyebrows went up.

“Let’s just say the Wodehouses find that kind of thing inspirational. But these days, it’s hard to explain the mutilated bodies that keep showing up on your lawn, so people go poof. They turn up later, very dead in very unpleasant ways. Word gets out. Most people leave the Manor alone.”

The boys exchanged another look, before turning back to her in freaky unison.

She tipped the katana against the scabbard and slid it home. If everything Sam had said about this Metatron was true, she wouldn’t put it past the Wodehouses to have made… _friends_. She scowled.

“Fine. I’ll get us an invite.”

Sam’s eyebrows jumped up all the way to his hairline. She didn’t look at him, focused on the sword in her hands, preoccupied. There was no question the Wodehouses would happily give her an invitation into their parlor. She glanced over at the stash of weaponry in the corner.

“That’ll get us to the manor, at least. But…” she trailed off, getting in was going to be the easy part. “…we may need to stop off for a few things before we go.”

Sam stared at her. She could practically hear the wheels whizzing in Sam’s brain and she carefully kept her expression neutral. There was only so much Sam was going to be able to piece together; she just had to be careful not to tell him anything else.

Dean looked at Sam, and looked back to her, but there was nothing but blank incomprehension on his face.

Good.


	54. Supermassive Black Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Muse.

She would have pitched head first into the black hole at their feet had Dean not snagged her by the collar. He had Sam by the same Momma cat grip, Sam’s toes hanging precariously over the edge of the dark abyss that had suddenly opened up where the Wodehouse’s grand foyer was a moment ago.

“ _I thought we were invited._ ” Dean hissed at her, eying the pitch darkness at their feet. “That _doesn’t look very inviting.”_

She edged her weight back onto her heels, onto the narrow strip of floor left to them between them and the door.

_“To come.”_ She hissed back. _“We were invited to come. No one said anything about leaving._ ”

_“And you’re telling us this now???_ ”

She shrugged. “It’s this or nothing. You wanted in, we’re in.”

Sam craned his neck out, looking into the pit. _“_ What _is_ that?”

“Poltergeist’s version of dungeon.” She replied. “Possibly a hell dimension.”

Two heads riveted simultaneously in her direction. She shrugged again. _“_ It’s a very cranky poltergeist. The Wodehouses tied it to the manor by enchantments. They tend not to like that.” She reached around and took a plain stuff human shaped doll out of the duffel she had slung over her shoulder and tossed it into the pit.

With deep, pleased creaking noise, the Manor rumbled, and the pit closed. The polished marble floor of the foyer reappeared, solid looking, but Dean yanked Sam back and put a toe out himself to test it.

It held his weight.

He let go of Sam and faced her.

_“And what the hell was that_?”

“My effigy.” She said shortly, rummaging through her kit. “Illusion. They want me, and now it thinks it has me. At least, it’ll be fooled for a minute. Come on, we’ve gotta move.”

Dean stared at her in horror. “ _What the hell do you mean they want you? In THAT?_ ”

She shoved a muslin doll and two hex bags impatiently into his startled hands, and a duplicate doll and another hex bag into Sam’s.

_“_ I mean it wants me, alive. So hang on to those, because it’ll think you’re me, and at least it’ll try to trap you instead of killing you outright. You. Take the north and west wings. Sam, the south wing.” She pointed at Dean, then at Sam, and kept the last hex bag to herself. “Hurry. We haven’t got much time.”

******

She was punching a hole into the wall at the Manor’s east corner when a scream of rage echoed through the house. The walls shuddered. Behind her the area rug disappeared suddenly with a sucking whoosh, replaced by a deepening pit of nothingness. Air sucked into that pit, pulling portraits and tapestries off the wall. She was pulled off her feet when the rug slid out from under her. She reached with her dagger for the hole she had made in the wall, trying to hook on, but her feet slid. She went sprawling onto her stomach, scrabbling at the floor and sliding precariously backwards.

An end table careened across the floor past her, tumbling end over end and disappearing into the dark.

With a second desperate jab she dug the tip of her dagger into the polished wood, and hung on. She kicked her feet against a divan screeching past, trying to find a foothold, some way to propel herself forward.

Her dagger wobbled.

Without warning something tackled her, pinning her to the ground.

She kicked reflexively. An arm snaked around her waist, yanking her solidly into a wall of flannel and muscle in an all too familiar way.

Dean.

They started to slide backwards.

Dean tugged her closer to him. He reached over her head, and jabbed his bowie into the oak flooring hard, wedging it in firmly. He threw one leg over her rear, but the dark vortex pulled at her boots insistently. With an audible click of his jaw he threw himself all the way over her, his chest to her back, a hot and heavy weight securing her against the floor, finally stopping her backwards slide. His hand spanned over her waist and the flat of her stomach, holding her tightly against him.

Heat pooled, low and sudden, unexpected, and she squirmed.

He swore. Shifted. And swore again.

Her breath stuck in her throat.

Dean blew out a strained breath, and grit his teeth.

“You know, normally I’m the last person to say this, but…just…ignore it.”

She almost turned her head to look at him in disbelief, because, well, just because. 

A heavy credenza waddled by, clawed feet screeching on the wooden floor. She squeezed her eyes closed. Focus. _Hell dimension. Poltergeist. Bad._ Opening her eyes a crack, she looked up at the pale yellow wallpaper less than a foot away. It wasn’t that far. If she could ignore the way his breath was feathering against the nape of her neck—she really should—and she could crawl forward and drop the hex bag into the hole.

Focus.

She locked her grip on her dagger and squiggled forward.

The arm around her waist clamped down like a vise.

“ _WHAT_ _THE HELL_ ARE YOU _DOING_?”

He spoke the words with his face buried against the back of her neck, sounding tormented and severely put upon, his lips moving against her skin, the sensation tingling all the way down her spine. She sucked air desperately and tried to shut it out. She glanced upward, gauging the distance between her outstretched hand and the hole in the wall and snapped, “I just need… a few more inches.”

The minute the words came back to her ears she clamped her lips shut. 

Crap.

The polite thing to do would be to ignore her outburst. Keep calm and carry on. She very carefully didn’t move further when the silence went on and on.

She chanced a look over her shoulder warily.

He had his eyes squeezed shut, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, biting down on his lip. He cracked one eye open when he felt her turn and convulsed, one great big whole body spasm that tightened his arm around her waist. He _snickered_ , then lost the plot completely and busted out guffawing. He tucked her closer into him, into the laughter bubbling uncontrollably out of him.

She stared at the laugh lines fanning out around his eyes.

_Aw. Crap._

With one last helpless gasp he rested his forehead against her shoulder before he _finally_ collected himself. With a deliberate move he leaned closer, close enough that his lips brushed her ear. 

“Oh _, sweetheart._ I can do better than _that._ ”

Aw. _Shiiiiit._

It was hard not to shiver, and hard not to lick her lips. 

_“Son of a…”_ His hand wandered warm and lower, and she could feel his quick pull of air, like he needed it.

A figurine crashed down next to them, the pieces scattering, tinkling along the floor as they were pulled into the vortex behind. She blinked. The rough burlap of the hex bag was still in her hand. She swallowed.

“Wall.” She said.

He let out a shuddery breath. “Yeah.”

His arm around her waist loosened a fraction. The wall was still an inch away. She turned her head back around and gauged the distance with one eye. She gripped her dagger firmly for leverage, and inched forward. The splay of his hand slipped over the waistband of her jeans, his palm heated even through the denim.

From around her shoulder blade came a strained croak.

“ _Are you… there yet???”_

Nope. NOPE. She was not answering _that._ The vortex pulled at them, the wind speeding up until it lifted them bodily off the ground, the only thing keeping them from being sucked into it was Dean’s grip on his bowie. She kept her eyes on the hole in the wall, straining to reach that last half inch, squirming against him because there was no other option, way too aware of every fractional movement, and chucked the hex bag desperately through the torn drywall with a thump.

With a whomp the deep pit sucked closed and they thudded down to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Her heart was beating too fast, and she was sure he could feel it, like the way he could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breaths, smoky green eyes intent on the tip of her tongue as she wet her lips.

He dropped her like a hot potato. He rolled away on a sharply indrawn breath that sounded vaguely like a curse.

Well.

Before she could blink, a shout came from down the hall.

“DEAN! ZEE! ”

She heard Sam’s footsteps pounding down the hallway and rolled away a second before Sam rounded the corner, still looking behind him. 

“The scroll of life isn’t it!” Sam blurted as he ducked a still swinging chandelier. “I got a look at it, and it’s not The Book!”

Sam swiveled around, catching sight of the both of them lying on the floor. 

“Dean?”

Dean coughed, and coughed again. “Yeah. Sammy.” Dean’s voice was husky, low, and she did not shiver at the way he sounded.

Sam’s eyes darted over to her.

She ducked her head on the pretense of dusting off her jeans.

“We’re…good. Just, “ Dean hacked again, still sounding a bit strained, “give us a minute, will ya?”

Sam’s eyes grew in size, and Sam started backing up, dashing glances down the hall, as if he could magically make himself disappear. “Yeah, um, you know what? I think that poltergeist is gone now, so I’ll just go see what is …um… I’m just gonna go… uh……that way….”

Sam disappeared.

The manor’s walls creaked ominously.

She directed her gaze a foot over Dean’s head, avoiding the heated glance he stole her way.

“Get a move on, sunshine. Let’s hightail it out of here while we still can.”


	55. Burnin' for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Blue Oyster Cult.

To say dinner was awkward would be an understatement. She made excuses and Dean made excuses and Sam somehow finagled his way around them both.

The reason they ended up here had his laptop out, both eyes trained dutifully on it, carefully not looking at either of them. Sam was talking about something, something they were supposed to be doing, something about the Book and maybe the Ashcrofts, and she tuned it all out so she could not notice the thing that was begging to be noticed.

She poked at her pasta, because food was likely a good idea. She was feeling light headed and fizzy, and eating definitely seemed wise.

Sam must have agreed, because he finished his chicken burger and drained his beer in no time flat.

“Well guys, I’m going to call it an early night.”

Before they could blink, Sam put down his napkin with a barely restrained grin, swept up his laptop, and disappeared out the door at warp speed with a wave.

A clunky silence fell over the table.

She kept her attention on her plate, twisting pasta meticulously onto her fork, _not_ noticing the way he was looking at her, heavy lidded and laser focused, thinking _things_ , eyes trailing downward like a physical caress. She could feel it, the heat of his hand, the strength of his hold, the whisper of his lips against her skin.

The motion of her fork stuttered.

Abruptly Dean put down the uneaten burger in his hand. She was unprepared for the sudden grimness in his eyes when he looked up again, still with the laser heat and tension in his glance, sweeping over her. His words were almost a growl.

“Cain got married.”

Uh.

She froze, stuck like a deer in headlights.

“Her name was Colette. Abaddon possessed her. Cain ended up ganking her, trying to off Abaddon.”

This wasn’t going to end well. Whatever Sam had in mind, Buffy and Angel-ing them together, match.com for things doomed to fail.

Message received, loud and clear.

Despite that, his gaze dropped helplessly to her lips again. Traced over them, ‘til they felt bee stung and kissed. She watched the dart of his tongue, the part of his mouth, and the unsubtle way he shifted in his chair.

She ducked her head and speared a tomato for something to do, aware of the way he was watching her hands on the fork.

Not subtle.

“I’m a _demon_.” He added into her silence, as if the anvil he’d just dropped on her head wasn’t heavy enough.

She glanced up sharply.

“ _I’m aware_.”

His eyes shaded a darker green, before he looked back down dispiritedly at the hamburger sitting limply on his plate. He picked it up without enthusiasm and took another bite before washing it down with beer.

It was a ritual with him. Eat, chew, drink, swallow. Methodical and precise, like clockwork. Except, as he kept reminding her, he was a demon, and demons, as far as she knew, didn’t eat.

“Why are you doing that?”

“What?”

“Eating.”

He set the burger down again with a grimace.

“Sam wants me to. It’s supposed to remind me I’m human, except it tastes rotten. Maybe it’s suppose to. Wouldn’t mean much if everything was just _normal_ , now, would it?”

Abruptly she set her fork down and stood. She couldn’t do this. Sit here and watch him clutch at his hair shirt, feet at the edge of the pit, looking for someone to push him in.

She threw a twenty down on the table.

“I’m turning in too.”

He was still watching her too closely. When she turned to leave his hand shot out around her wrist and stopped her. His eyes were narrow on the one low word.

“ _Demon._ ”

She should have just nodded and turned away. He would have let her go.

Instead she stopped. Turned to look down at him, gaze for gaze, her voice too low and too tight and too intense.

“ _And a crappy one at that_.”

******

Sam looked almost crestfallen when he slammed into the room two hours later.

“What the hell was _that_?!”

"What was what?" Sam played innocent like nobody's business.

"THAT. Don't you remember what happened to Cain's wife?"

That sobered the puppy dog right off Sam's face. "Dean, I…"

"Yeah. Well, don't. I told her."

Sam looked confused.

"About what happened to Colette."

Sam's face fell. 

"You can't have everything, Sammy. Leave it alone."

He peeled off his jacket as he headed into the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."

He shouldn’t be here. Where he should be, was over at Darla’s, sweating it up between her sheets, lost in a hot tangle of limbs, her soft and ample curves underneath him, having some fun. A distraction. She had sidled up against him when she brought his beer over to the pool table, smiled at him with smoky bedroom eyes, biting her lower lip in a suggestive pout while sneaking a glance at his ass. He’d returned the appreciative once over, checking her out, and Darla had appreciated being appreciated. She’d leaned in a little to pick up her tip, a sly smile when he eyed her display of cleavage, her knowing blue eyes dancing with the anticipation of a good night. 

That was the way it was supposed to go. They’d lock lips before they even made it in the door—to her house, her apartment, motel room, wherever, all hot hands and disheveled clothing, hurried and wild, looking for that physical release to ease the itch that was riding them. It was blissful and easy, working out some of that built up tension. A lingering kiss or two afterwards, maybe seconds, maybe not, and moving on. Everyone knew the score, got what they wanted, and no one got hurt. So he had no idea why he ended up smiling apologetically and walking away, when he really could use a little of that, as wound up as he was, feeling the rasp of clothes rough against his skin when what he really wanted was …

No.

_She_ was hot—there was no denying that. He’d have to be blind not to have noticed. He’d have to be dead to not get turned on by the way she’d fit against him. The way _she_ looked at him. Like fire burning through amber, _seeing_ him. The way it would be, like a lightening strike straight to his gut, burning out of control, and he would lose himself in it, in her. His hips tightened, temptation stroking over his skin like heat, sitting on his chest, forcing his hard intake of breath.

God. It would be so good.

It was a terrible, terrible idea.

He started buttoning up again. He could go back to the bar. It was mixed messages as all hell, but Darla would forgive him. She’d checked out his ass enough, he was pretty sure of it. That was what he needed. He couldn’t go on this wound up; he just needed…

With a frustrated growl he went back to stripping out of his clothes.

There was a difference between having a little fun and pretending. Pretending was still a lie, sitting wrong like a lead brick in his stomach. He couldn’t do it. What he wanted, as he shucked out of his jeans and threw them on the floor with a snap, what he wanted, stepped into the shower and turned the water on to warm, letting it stroke over his skin, what he wanted, as he closed his eyes and set one hand against the tile, was his… imagination.

By habit they had gotten adjoining rooms, close enough to hear in case of trouble. It was a kind of torment now, knowing she was right there. What would she do if he just knocked on the door? Would there be a salt line there, thick across the threshold, or would she step back, and let him in? He wouldn’t be able to wait for it, words, manners, the things you were supposed to say or do, because he needed that kiss. He’d lean in, lips hot over hers, hands sweeping down to bring her against him, flush and heated and she’d wind her arms around him, right there with him, lost in it, wanting it. Because she knew, did it matter how? She just knew, knew it all, and there was nothing to hide. He’d move her back towards the bed, slipping the gun from the small of her back and set it on the nightstand, easing his hand underneath her shirt, his fingertips caressing bare skin beneath, splaying to hold her when she curved into him, every point of contact just pure addictive heat.

The air was steamy around him. He barely felt the hot water streaming over his skin, eyes fluttering closed, intensely focusing. His imagination wove together with his memory, blending together in a seamless fantasy, anticipation a grip tightening in his chest. That sensitive spot at the base of her throat, then there beneath the shell of her ear; he’d flick his tongue against her skin, tasting, and she’d come unraveled in his arms, the way he wanted it. She’d arch into him, her hands caressing, smoothing over his shoulders, arms wrapping around his neck, a long sinuous rub of her body along the length of him, and they really needed to get rid of all their clothes. He’d be working on that while she kissed him, soft lips against his, velvety slick and urgent, melting against him, so hot and so heated, _seeing_ him and somehow wanting _him_. He’d run his hand down the smooth line of her back, over the sweet tight cling of her jeans, one leg curled up against his still too clothed hips, the intoxicating fit hot flush against him. Air came hard and fast in and out of his lungs, the spiral of tension so tight and so tense, quivering, standing right there on the edge of it, when through the thin motel wall he _heard_ her low moan.

He lost it. His hips clenched and he thrust forward, one great spasm going on and on, biting down on the telltale shout tearing unbidden from his throat, burning in his lungs, the bloom of heat like a flush everywhere, pulsing out and out, coming totally apart, before drifting slowly down in pieces and in bliss.

******

The water grew cool when he finished showering slowly, enjoying the clean scent of soap, lazy and languid in the aftermath, his eyelids curiously heavy. Sam had already turned out the lights by the time he crawled between the sheets, and the bed was amazingly comfortable. He’d just close his eyes for a minute and let himself drift, because this was all really kind of nice.

******

When he woke up, the first thing he saw was Sam hovering and staring at him like it was a Mystery Spot Tuesday, all big-eyed with concern and he yelped, shooting straight out of bed with a curse.

“Son of a Bitch! Sam! Don’t do THAT! What the hell! That’s just freaky, dude!”

“Dean.” Sam sounded five and concerned, somehow both at the same time. “You were asleep.”

The talent for stating the obvious had to be catching, even though they hadn’t seen Cas in a while. 

Wait.

He had been asleep. Like, real sleep.

“Was I breathing?”

Sam nodded.

Vaguely he could sense a pothole ahead of him, explanation-wise. He wasn’t about to divulge the mechanics of why and how he’d managed to sleep, like actual human sleep, because one, TMI, and two, he didn’t know what direction that would set Sam off in, in his scheming. Last thing Sam needed was encouragement, of any kind.

He settled for dodging by looking at the clock, simultaneously grabbing for his shirt and heading to the bathroom, talking to cover the spaces where Sam could get in a question.

“C’mon. Hurry up. We’re going to be late.”

******

In his rush to avoid Sam’s questions and get down to breakfast he hadn’t quite thought his way through what was going to happen when he saw her again. Belatedly it occurred to him as he sat staring at the empty place setting across the table from him, that there was no reason for her to join them, exactly, when she slipped into the chair and immediately picked up the menu, holding it up in front of her so he was left staring at the logo of a flying pig, studying it like she’d never seen a breakfast menu before in her life, hiding the pink flush on her cheeks.

What was _that_?

He took his mind back to where they had left off last night, in reality, hot and bothered to the point where a night of mindless sex should have been the answer. With something akin to unfair horror he stared at the flying pig again. What if a night of hot mindless sex _had_ been her answer? The cutting edge of betrayal sliced through, followed by another part of his brain immediately kicking in—no, he would have heard. He always kept a long ear out for them, in case of trouble, and okay, so now that was six kinds of stalker-y without Toby there, but it was a habit. He hadn’t heard anything except that one delicious little moan when he was in the middle of—

Oh.

He turned beet red. His mind immediately volunteered a series of images not suitable for consumption in public, especially with Sam staring at him as the redness crept up his neck and made it uncomfortably hot to breathe. He swallowed, rubbing the palm of his hand against his thigh, grateful he was sitting down and grateful they were at a square table instead of a bench where Sam could glance down and squirm with girly shock.

Luckily the waitress came at that moment to take their orders. From behind the menu Zee asked for a coffee and whatever the special was, in a voice as husky as all hell, and he was sure she had absolutely no idea what she’d just been intently reading for the past few minutes. She let go of the menu reluctantly, slid a glance in his direction, like a touch on his lips before hastily picking up the Happy Hour placard sitting on the table to look over what drinks might be on offer six hours from now. 

By now a blind man would have twigged to the lightening dancing across the table, and sadly, Sam was not blind and Sam was far too smug. But Sam was foremost a gentleman, so Sam cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Ahem.”

Dean considered kicking him under the table.

“So! Anything interesting happen last night?”

Dean glared at his baby brother. _Dude. Boundaries._ Belatedly he realized Sam was nodding towards Toby’s amulet, and it drew his gaze where he didn’t want it to go.

She intercepted his look and had to clear her throat before answering.

“No.”

Unconsciously her fingers went over it, the gesture much like Toby’s. He followed the motion, watching with fascination as she blushed a deeper shade of rose, strenuously avoiding his eyes. Why was she doing that? It was almost as if…

Oh man.

Anna had jacked his dreams once, and he’d been perfectly aware of it. What if…

Oh God.

He was sitting on a small sun, going up in flames, everything too tight and too hard to breathe. The details of last night’s fantasy roared to life 3D around him, the feel of it a blood rush, pure charge tingling the palms of his hands. He focused on the spot below her ear she liked, the one that made her just melt, because he needed someplace to park his eyes that was not a lingering caress of her lips, hot and lascivious and damn it if she didn’t reach up distractedly just then and put her hand over the exact spot like…

Oh Geez.

He didn’t know what color he was now. Nuclear red? It felt like it. His chest constricted. He wanted to reach across the table, take that menu of drinks she was never going to order from out of her hands, run his fingers up her wrist and offer her something far more intoxicating. Take her hand and run, back to the room, now, the things he wanted to do slamming hard one on the heels of the other in his mind, all of them fizzy and electric, wanting to reach, wanting to stroke.

She shifted in her chair like her clothes were too tight.

His brain evaporated.

Sam kicked him under the table.

Sam had a really prissy glare when he set his mind to it.

Luckily or not, their order arrived in a bustle and clatter of dishes. She grabbed at her coffee like a lifeline. He looked blankly down at the plate of food set down in front of him. What was he supposed to do with that now? A short stack was innocuous, usually—cardboard-y with a hint of ash, less vile than most other things, but he didn’t want it. He wanted to stay in the moment for a while, just for one moment, indulge in it, the warmth of it, and just forget, forget what he was.

He looked at the fork lying on the white paper napkin next to his plate, his right hand curling into a fist under the table.

He picked up the everyday utensil, scarred from all its trips through the dishwasher.

With dull movements, he cut through the pancakes and put a bite in his mouth, and chewed and chewed and chewed, automatically reaching for the coffee as a chaser. She watched him, the fixed rhythm of his movements, that keen awareness in her eyes.

Methodically he took another bite. Cardboard. Coffee. Swallow.

He flicked a look up at her, ignoring the fact Sam was poking at his Power Quinoa whatsit breakfast with one spy-eye out on the tone of their silent exchange.

_This. This is what I am._

_Remember._


	56. Smoking Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Kip Wagner.

He was a bitch to live with. This Dean concluded a week later, a week of feeling too tightly wound trying to whack his thoughts into submission. His thoughts were like gophers. Who knew? He’d catch one of the little suckers trying to escape into a fantasy, grab it, only to have another pop out of a different hole entirely and be off to the races. So he was alternately cranky and horny, although mostly horny, and stuck in a state where he couldn’t _do_ anything about it. 

They were still working together. Why were they still working together? It was torture. She got too close, standing beside him in that slick Fed suit of hers, although _heels_ —and with that his mind went rabbitting off again, lingering until she looked up at his distracted silence, catching the drift of his thought like completing a circuit, the pink of her tongue touching both lips on an indrawn breath as she struggled to put a lid on live current.

He got stuck partnered with Sam after that.

Sam started taking himself off to the library, to do “research”, just to get out of the line of fire. He caught Sam eying another black Charger that morning, thinking about hot-wiring it just to get out of riding in the Impala, because he drove too fast. He couldn’t help that. _She_ drove too fast. _She_ was taking the curves too sharply, working the edgy frustration out on the road. He was just keeping up. Sam had looked longingly at the low-slung wheels, and heaved a sigh with his soul in it, like all he wanted in the whole wide world was a nice, slow, non-Formula One drive for a change.

Well, too bad. This was all his fault.

They were chasing down a lead in Omaha, one tensely silent meal too many, with Sam ambitiously trying to fill in the conversational gaps with trivia. For whatever reason that day they had parked clear across the parking lot. So it was a long trek back to the Impala and the Durango, with nowhere to put his eyes as he followed her, keeping a carefully casual but spacious distance between himself and walking temptation, when she abruptly stopped short and muttered, “Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”

She turned on her heel. He had to pull up to avoid running into her, and he blamed that little distraction for the fact she was able to slip her hand around his neck and tug his head down, skimming a kiss across his lips, tentative like she was not entirely sure that _whatever-it-was_ wasn’t all in her head, her kiss delicious like honey and cinnamon and whiskey and he inhaled, his heart stopping on a precipice.

He should pull back. It was the sensible thing to do.

His lips parted because he needed air to make that decision, and she slid in for a taste, running the tip of her tongue along the inner curve of his upper lip like he was a fine bourbon. Oh God. His eyes closed, focusing on that slick friction. His muscles locked, wanting to reach, to stroke his hands down her back, under her jacket, to hold, to bring her flush against his heat, all of it, a fine tremor of tension pulling against his better judgment. She put her other hand on his shoulder, stepping in closer and up on her tiptoes, dreamily lost in what she was doing, soft and warm against him, her attention wholly focused on the kiss he could do nothing but slant his head into, his hands clenched into fists at his sides with the effort of his restraint. He leaned in, deepening the kiss despite himself, tasting the smooth curve of her bottom lip, gently sucking, listening to the intoxicating break in her breath, the tightening of her hands on him looking for balance over the iffy instability that seemed to be affecting her knees.

He only slid a hand around her waist to keep her upright, and once he had touched he couldn’t help but step, to close the distance between them until body heat was fire and his imagination was pitiful in comparison to the real thing. In his arms she was everything he remembered and more than he imagined, supple and sleek, a live flame, flush against him in all the right places. He brought her closer, the rustle and friction of six layers too many clothing scraping sensitized skin and he needed more.

“Ahem.”

They jerked apart, hands going to weapons because she didn’t recognize the voice and he did. He shoved her behind him and Sam was already running back to them from across the parking lot before he even got done turning all the way around to face down Crowley, and whatever Crowley had in mind besides really atrocious timing.

“Hello, boys.” Crowley peered around him, eyebrows perking up with interest, then added. “Your Grace.”

_What?_

Crowley launched in before he had a chance to follow that thought.

“We’ve got problems.”

“ _We_?” He growled. “There is no _we._ ”

Crowley shot back a long-suffering look of exaggerated patience.

“They’re going over to the other side.”

“Who?” Sam asked, trying to find a thread in Crowley’s headless conversation.

“Demons, you meathead. Who’d you think I was talking about? Who else would I be worried about? It’s not like I can do anything about the angels flocking to him. I mean, birds of a feather and all, and he is an archangel, so _that_ can’t be a surprise. Even you can’t be that naïve.”

He stared at Crowley, because Crowley was making even less sense than normal. “You’ve got demons working for Ramiel now?”

“We’ve. We’ve got.” Crowley corrected meticulously. “This is your problem too, mate.”

Dean snarled. Crowley ignored him and went on.

“He’s promising them there will be no judgment. No sorting of the sheep, no fire and brimstone for anyone.” Crowley scoffed. “If their brains were bigger than peas, they’d know better. But you know, demons. Not the sharpest knives in my drawer, and that’s saying something.”

“Can he do that?” Sam asked.

“Think, you great big Moose. They’re busy emptying Heaven, shoving every last saint and goody two shoes back down here in half-rotten corpses. What kind of redemption do you think is on offer? It’s a long con. Not a bad sales pitch, I’ll grant you. Takes one to know one.”

“So how’s that going to work? How can Ramiel promise them they won’t be judged?”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Imagination, Louise. Surely you must have some.”

Zee inhaled. “Possession.”

“And a prize for Her Grace. It’s about time you boys got some brains in this outfit. Eight billion, live, fresh, ambulatory meat suits—all you need is a little help pushing their occupants to one side, and it’s free rentals for the Wingless Host on the Upper West Side.”

Sam looked horrified. “Why? Why would Ramiel even want to do that?”

“It’s Judgment Day, Samantha. What’s a good plea to get out of being tossed into the ninth circle? What buys you a cozy seat topside, bars on the windows and three squares, even if you are taking them with your arms behind you in hospital whites?”

“Guilt by mental defect.” Sam replied automatically. “The insanity plea.”

“ _That’s_ his plan? Make everyone Three Faces of Sybil and call it good? What the hell kind of plan is that?”

Crowley’s grimace was thin as he looked down at his tailored suit.

“An effective one. No saints, no sinners, no Heaven, no Hell. Everything blended together until everyone’s the same, no one to blame, nowhere to go. We’ll all be stuck on this grimy ball of dirt for all of a very long eternity, driving each other stark raving mad with Hope watching kindly over us. So unless you’re planning to do something about it, welcome to the new asylum.”

******

In the silence that followed Crowley’s disappearance, Dean stepped back. He turned around, very deliberately, so deliberately that Sam tensed up.

He faced the woman behind him.

So there was a catch. There was _always_ a catch.

His voice came out low, but he thought it was remarkably even, all things considered.

“ _What_ are you?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam wrinkle his brows together, but before Sam could open his mouth to speak, he held up one finger at his brother. _Not now._

“ ‘ _Your Grace.’_ WHAT are you?”

He knew it was bad news the moment she drew herself up, icy distance settling over her like a cloak, her eyes a thousand miles distant, expressionless and _soulless_ again.

Sam interrupted. “Dean…”

“An Exeter-Asquith.” The corner of her lip flicked upward, cool in a way that chilled him to his bones. “My full name is Zelda. Evangeline. Exeter-Asquith.” 

She paused there and waited, like it should mean something. It meant nothing to him, but Sam made a barely audible “oh shit” before clamping his lips together. Dean stared at him. It was an actual eon before Sam got his crap together, and burped up an all too tentative question.

“Exeter-Asquith, of _the_ Exeter-Asquiths?”

He didn’t think Zee’s expression could get any icier, but it definitely did.

Sam huffed anxiously.

“ _WHAT?_ ”

He asked the question through gritted teeth, because Sam had come to a full stop, _ohfuckohfuckohfuck_ written loud all over him.

He crossed his arms and glared at his brother. “Sammy.”

Sam sighed. “The Exeter-Asquiths are aristocracy, Dean. One of the Families.”

The words rang in his ears and he processed them hollowly, like they came from a great distance.

He stared at Sam, because there was something else in Sam’s voice. That wasn’t all of it.

“ _And?_ ” He demanded.

Sam huffed again.

“The Exeter-Asquiths, the family goes back a long ways. There are stories about them. In the bunker.” Sam glanced cautiously at Zee out of the side of his eye, as if mentioning the bunker was fine now, because the cat was obviously out of the bag. “There were a couple of newspaper clippings from about twenty-five years ago. The main line of the family suffered a spectacular run of bad luck—illness, freak accidents, you name it. The title eventually ended up going to a tiny forgotten offshoot of the family, where it eventually passed to a child, the sole surviving heir of the line.”

Dean turned. There was ice in his heart, the chill traveling down to the palms of his hands.

“You’re an heiress?”

Her eyes narrowed more, watching him carefully.

“Something like that.”

He felt sick. He was cold and everything was moving like molasses in winter.

“You don’t sound English.”

“I spent time here, growing up.”

_A spectacular run of_ bad luck _._ _A_ series _of freak accidents._

No. It was too much to ask.

It was just too much to ask.

There were stories about her family in _the bunker_. What the hell had happened? And what the hell was she?

He lit into the only thing he could deal with right now.

“And so what are you doing _here_? This your idea of fun, huh? _Slumming_ it? A way to pass the time? Are you _playing_ at hunting, _princess?_ ”

His voice rose, red and angry as he bit off the words, making mocking circular gestures with his finger, glaring at her, ignoring Sam’s frantic silent signaling. _Not now. Dean, later. Don’t blow it now._

It was too late to be worried about blowing it. He wasn’t the one who’d been keeping _secrets_. He glared, his temper boiling. He played fast and loose with the truth all the time, but not like this.

Never like this.

“You didn’t think I… _we_ _deserved_ to KNOW?”

The look she gave him was hooded. She said nothing.

He glared harder. God, it was like pulling teeth.

Finally, “Is it relevant?”

_Was it relev.._ Dean clicked his teeth shut with a snap. Well. That said everything. The rush of anger was so loud in his ears he almost didn’t hear her next words as she turned and walked sharply away from them.

“Don’t you worry. The title dies with me.”


	57. Fell on Black Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Chris Cornell.

“Look her up.”

“Dean…”

Sam was going to try to reason with him. It was in Sam’s voice, the flex and the bend of it, looking for a rational explanation, for some way to save a cracked egg.

He threw the Impala’s keys onto the motel’s shabby dresser with a clatter loud enough to make Sam wince. Loud enough to drown out the silence behind them, the absence of the Durango’s engine idling down, the lack of any sound coming from the room next door.

“Look her up, Sam. Like we’re working a job. Dig it all up. I want to know what we’re dealing with here.”

He didn’t have to turn around to know the face Sam would be making with that exaggerated huff.

“Dean, if this is about her being a duchess…”

He spun around, and Sam stopped mid-sentence.

“ _I don’t care if she’s the friggin’ Princess of Tasmania, Sam_! What else hasn’t she told us, huh? What _else_?”

He’d gotten in too deep, sipping the kool-aid of promise and temptation, taking things at face value, thinking _things._ That they were in this _together_ , all for one and one for all, except as it turned out, not so much, really. His cards were all on the table and where were hers? Still held tight to the vest, and this was how the hustler got hustled.

And he had no idea, none whatsoever, how much she was still holding back.

Oh, she was _good_.

Sam opened his mouth to argue, to point out that Garth had vouched for her, and in their world, that was normally enough. It was the life. You didn’t go poking around under other people’s scabs, because everyone got into hunting somehow, and it was never pretty. Everyone had a past. They had a past.

And Garth had vouched for them too. 

He glared, because he shouldn’t need to _say_ any of that out loud. It would be pointing out the obvious.

With a huff and a puff, Sam ran a frustrated hand through his hair, because Sam wanted to believe. Puppies at the end of the rainbow, forgiveness and redemption, looking for a _future_ , Happy Days and a way out of this mess. Hope. For Sam’s sake he wished things were different, but the reality was this. Reality was shit.

Sam should have learned that by now.

And maybe Sam had, because Sam’s lips twisted downwards hard before Sam pulled out his laptop, thunked himself unhappily into the rickety metal chair, and started tapping away at the keyboard.

******

She shouldn’t have let her guard down.

She shouldn’t have kissed him.

It was ironic, wasn’t it, the way things turned out. Someone ought to make a note of it, slap a warning label on both their foreheads for all future comers—it wasn’t the _danger_ that you needed to worry about around the Winchester boys. It was the illusion of _safety._

The highway stretched flat and featureless before her. She kept her foot on the gas, heading west, because west was where the ocean lay. She wanted to look out at the infinity of the sea, drown out the silence with the waves, and stand in the salt tinted breeze. She wanted to forget, to shed, _feeling_. Hot and bothered for days on end, a ghosting touch stroking over her skin at random moments, warm and wanting until she’d given in to it, and the reality was… so much better.

Her tongue skimmed over her lips, savoring. She caught herself and sucked down a deep breath.

Control.

It was ironic, wasn’t it, that it hadn’t been hers. She hadn’t been the restrained one, hadn’t kept her hands at her sides until the last, hadn’t stepped back. She’d fallen headlong into it, even knowing this tended to happen to the best of them, the whirlwind around the boys. He’d stepped back, and she’d stepped forward, into the temptation of the dream, that we’ve-got-your-back togetherness, _possibilities_ , the glowing certifiable certitude that was Sam, overlooking reality, breaking the rule that should never have been broken in the first place—always move on. It should have been hunt and done and onto the next job, because that was the way it was. Don’t hold on, because what you held on to would be used against you.

Always.

She gripped the steering wheel harder, gazing into the distant haze that clouded the horizon, shutting out the past. The thin scars on her palm and the deeper one across her wrist had long since faded, but that didn’t change the blood in her veins. It didn’t change the fact that she alone opened the Vault.

She should have known better.

It wasn’t ever _safe_.

Her fingers went over the amulet resting against her breastbone. She shouldn’t be wearing it. It was a link, a tether, a vulnerability. She should take it off like she should keep driving, abandoning Sam and the thing he was asking of her, because Sam didn’t know what he was tangling with, and if he did, he’d understand.

The sign for Cheyenne came into view, highway 80 west, and she should keep going. Sixteen hundred miles to the sea or a hundred miles back to Omaha, the other way, trying to buy time against the impossible, trying to escape fate. She should have told Sam to run now, that this was a battle no one won, it was all little cuts and little cuts until the big one, when the demon won out and nothing else mattered, and there were no exceptions to the rule.

None.

******

“Huh.”

Halfway through his second tasteless beer Dean braced himself, watching as Sam did the wrinkle-y thing with his face.

There was something. He knew it. There had to be something.

“She’s an orphan, you know.”

He glared at Sam, because he’d already gotten _that_ salient fact from “sole heir.” 

“Is that supposed to make me feel _sorry_ for her?”

Sam flashed him an irate look and went back to reading.

“With a title and a fortune like that, you can imagine the custody battle was pretty fierce. Looks like everyone and anyone who could claim to be a distant relative twice removed crawled out from under a rock to put in their bid. The Ashcrofts, Harclays, the Ambelyns, the Wodehouses.”

“Whoa, whoa. As in the _Wodehouse_ Manor, interdimensional pit of hell, Wodehouses?”

Sam nodded without taking his eyes off the screen. “Yeah. Old families, all of them. It totally makes sense now that they’d give her an invitation to the Manor, no questions asked. It’s almost as if…Whoa.”

“What?”

“There was an uproar when the court appointed an outsider as her guardian. An _American_. Someone no one’s ever heard of. A Rufus Turner.”

The beer he was in the process of drinking came up with a splutter. “ _WHAT?_ ”

Sam looked up mildly. “You heard me. Rufus.”

“ _RUFUS_? Rufus _Rufus_?”

Sam was squinting now, turning over everything that had happened in his mind. “You have to admit, it would explain an awful lot.”

“Our Rufus??” 

With a flourish Sam swiveled the laptop around so he could see the screen for himself. The photograph was fuzzy from a bad scan, but it was _Rufus_ , fancied up in a suit and tie, earring and all, holding on to the bandaged hand of a solemn mini-Zee, already nine-tenths of the way to her current expressionless expression, standing in front of some huge old pile.

Dean breathed out, one long breath, and set the bottle in his hand down hard. He avoided looking at mini-Zee, too young to be in so deep, a backstory there he didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know, tugging him in too close in ways he couldn’t deal with. He needed to keep his distance. He fixated instead on the thing he could handle. The look on Rufus’ face, years ago and yesterday, an exact mirror of Dad’s in those first years after the fire, grim and a grief so great whiskey couldn’t drown it out, hanging on by a thread, by a need for vengeance.

_“Rufus?”_

Sam watched his reaction play out, before adding quietly, “’87 was not that long after Omaha. She’d have been four. I’m surprised he fought for custody at all.”

“He would have. That he was there at all means there was a job. If there was a job…”

“Yeah. And after Omaha, he wouldn’t have told Bobby squat, especially if she wound up in the life.” Sam sighed heavily before turning the laptop back around and scrolling down. “Well, he did right by her. Brought her back here for a few years and enrolled her in some pretty exclusive boarding schools from the word go—St. Mary’s. St. Andrews. Then back across the pond—St. Bartholomew’s. St. Katherine’s.” Sam tongued his cheek. “Huh.”

Two of a thing was luck. Three of a thing was a pattern. Four of a thing was a plan.

Holy ground.

School after school, always one with holy ground.

Big honking devil’s trap under her house.

A small frown creased Sam’s face as he read on.

“From these records it looks like she spent her summers _and_ her holidays at school. It doesn’t look like he spent that much time with her at all. Certainly not enough to teach her the way Dad taught us. The only gap is six months between the first two schools, when she would have been six, really too young to learn anything.”

Maybe. He knew a lifetime’s worth of vigilance when he saw it.

The chair scraped across the floor when he stood abruptly up, lips bit tight around the breath he wasn’t breathing.

Rufus wouldn’t have let anything slip by him. Not with that look on his face.

He’d been protecting her all along. Her, and whatever she was sitting on.

_From demons._

Sam glanced up at his sudden movement.

“Dean?”

The room was too small, the walls too close. Even if it didn’t show up in the records, Rufus would have taught her, and taught her well. Whatever it was she saw in him, whyever she held off trying to exorcise his ass, whether it was because of Toby, whether it was because of Sam…he grabbed his jacket and Baby’s keys. He was halfway out the door when Sam’s voice chased after him.

“Dean! Where are you go…”

“Out! I’m going _out!_ ”

He slammed the door on Sam’s last words. The night air was cool as he slid behind the wheel, fired up the engine, and let Baby run.

_How do you know you won’t be the problem?_

He let out the breath he’d been holding, air he didn’t need. He knew what they were doing, her and Sam, the dagger throw, the machete, all this tedious legwork, doing things the old fashioned way, keeping him off his powers, the First Blade out of his hand, as if that were the problem. 

Trying to _save_ him. Whatever they thought was left around the darkness.

It couldn’t be done.

Involuntarily he licked his lips for the taste of cinnamon and honey and whiskey, intoxicating, and he breathed deep, sweetness and pain burning down to his lungs. He could see how Cain had fallen for it, even knowing better, even knowing the destruction he brought in his wake, the heady promise of warmth, tight around his chest, temptation beyond measure.

He hung a hard right, down to the main drag, street lights and neon caressing the dashboard, white and pink and blue playing over his hands. The way she’d reached for him, her touch skimming over his skin, and _God_ he _wanted_ it. Like a damned moth to a flame, but who was the moth, and who was the flame?

There were things Rufus would have taught her, no matter what Sam said. It would have been for her own good. And she’d learned it. It was there in the way she never slept easy, never let her guard down. Next to never. That kiss was a crack in the armor, a mistake, and she wouldn’t make it again. Fire to ice in a half second flat, Soulless and emotionless again because it was the edge she had to have, living the razor’s edge that was the life. Remembering what was _relevant_ , remembering how anyone could turn.

He breathed in again, the air frigid because he hadn’t cranked on the heater since it made no difference to him. Ironic, wasn’t it, that for all that he’d kept reminding her of _what_ he was—he’d overlooked the one thing.

_What_ she was.

A hunter. A damned good one. Almost as good as Sam.

A red light up ahead forced him to a stop when he wanted to keep driving. Two-lane highway in the dark, enough gas to keep on going, with only the engine hum for company. Looking for some way to clear his head, to think straight, to see where he was going, an idea forming in his mind. He knew Sam wouldn’t see it, because Sam wanted to believe. 

And that was just as well.

The light turned green and he laid on the gas, outstripping the Prius on his right easily with a roar of engine, his eyes on nothing but the road. They’d been on it forever, him and Sam, bound to it by destiny and by doom, Lucifer and Michael, Abel and Cain, the one ending in the distance they couldn’t seem to avoid. 

His hand stayed steady on the wheel, following the double yellow into the thickness of night beyond the last streetlight. He scrubbed one hand over the day’s stubble, rough on his jaw, and considered all the angles.

If Rufus had trained her, there was a way he could make this work for him.

And it’d be better this way. 

******

He was playing with fire and he knew it. In the silence that followed the Impala pulling out of the parking space out front, Sam sat back. He stared at the screen in front of him.

Dean had left before he’d gotten all the way through telling him everything, and maybe it was better this way. The things Zee hadn’t mentioned she hadn’t mentioned for a reason, and they didn’t need to know. There were things in the Vault that should probably never see the light of day, and Rufus hadn’t gone to the lengths he’d gone to retrieve them so demons could pop the lid on the treasure chest open once again.

Abruptly he sat up and put his hands on the keyboard again. With a series of quick taps he cleared the screen and erased his search history. He closed the laptop with a definitive click, stood up, walked across the room to the mini-fridge, and grabbed himself a beer. He needed to think.

He let out a self-mocking scoff, because _thinking_ was all he could do, thinking and twiddling his thumbs, with both Zee and Dean AWOL and in the wind, and while he had some faith Dean would be back once he’d cooled down, he had no idea what Zee would do. He reached into his pocket for his phone, thumb over the GPS app before he turned the phone off again and looked at his shadowy reflection in the blank screen. He’d promised Toby they would watch her back, and now he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

Slowly he put the phone away.

It wasn’t his call. 

He paced across the room again, restless. Dean had taken the Impala instead of teleporting—a habit, a human one. Dean slept now, little catnaps here and there. Enough. More than before. They’d come so far. If they could make progress like this, what Suriel had said—if there was something out there that would remove the Mark completely, he just needed time to find it.

With a long gulp he drained the beer. He hadn’t realized when he’d sat down at the table that the stakes were so high, but he couldn’t quit now. They couldn’t quit, none of them. This wasn’t just killing the odd vamp and revenant here and there anymore. The things Crowley said, demons and angels binding heaven and hell together in one ugly knot; the world a mess and getting messier by the day. If for no other reason than that, she’d come back and Dean’d come back, both of them by morning, because this was bigger than them. It was a hell of a thing to buy time with, the end of the world, but he’d take it.

He’d take whatever he could get.


	58. Nothing Else Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Metallica.

Sam was waiting outside her door the next morning, two cups of takeout coffee in his hands.

“Dean is…” He threw a glance at the Impala behind him, and shrugged helplessly, handing her a cup.

She took the cup from his outstretched hand.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Damned straight.” The cold angry voice came from right behind her, and she very nearly jumped. _Stupid damned teleporting._ She refrained from spinning around on her heel, because she could feel the heat of him, too close by her shoulder, vibrating with pent up something, as tense as a taut string, topped off with a growl. “Where to?”

The glance Sam shot his brother was frustrated and exasperated. “Tulsa. Tulsa or Raleigh. There’s a Benedictine Order in Tulsa, and …”

“The Ambelyn Foundation in Raleigh.” She finished for him. Of course. “I didn’t think biblical was their thing, though.”

“Friends of yours, _princess_?”

“DEAN!!” Sam snapped.

With great deliberation she put the coffee cup back into Sam’s still outstretched hand and turned around. There was no place for this, the turmoil and recrimination in those green eyes as they looked back into hers, unsettled and uneven and wanting, emotion thick around him like a cloud, emotion like no demon should fall prey to. She drew herself up and stepped into the foot of space he had carefully left between them, icy and calm and controlled.

“ _Dial. It. Back._ Or you _will_ get us killed.” 

He didn’t break her gaze, didn’t back up, didn’t give in, trying to say something without saying it. There was a hardness there, brittle without hope, and he flicked a glance at his brother over her shoulder before he came back to her, wanting something, she didn’t know what, and it was hard not to put a hand on his arm to take away the torment in his eyes. But there was no place for that, if there ever had been, the illusion of togetherness.

This was a job.

Nothing more.

The corners of his mouth quirked downward in silent agreement.

She turned back around, took the coffee from the hand Sam hadn’t moved, and walked off to her car.


	59. Chaos Surrounds You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Brian Tichy.

_The earth rushed up to meet him as he fell, the feathers of his grace burning off in the stratosphere’s thin air, stripped from him one by one as fiery arcs searing across the night sky. The alien feeling of fear compressed his chest as he tried to right himself, tried to slow the dizzying speed of his descent with his flaming wings, but instead of catching on wind and air and flight they shredded, white hot pain ripping at his back and he fell faster. The ground grew freakishly in size and clarity as terror clogged his throat, drummed in his head, listening to the panicked shrieking of the others, his brothers and sisters, all of them falling and falling, order and harmony and paradise lost._

“Castiel!”

He jerked awake as Eliam shook him by the shoulder, concern and pity in the other angel’s eyes. He could feel the imprint of the car window on his cheek as he blinked.

“Where are we?”

His voice was rusty, dragging out of his sluggish lungs. He shivered and burrowed deeper into Jimmy’s trench coat, trying to shake the clinging ache of unspeakable loss, the remnants of Theo’s nightmare.

Eliam brushed his forehead with two fingers and frowned. He leaned forward and whispered to Joanna in the driver’s seat. Something about turning up the heat, and Joanna obliged.

“La Jara. We should be in Ridgeway soon.”

Castiel looked out the fogged windows of Joanna’s borrowed minivan. Fresh snow gleamed pristine and bright on the mountains, granite creases in the new skin of the earth, their edges delineated sharply against the azure sky. It was instinct, he supposed, for them to want to climb. Reaching skyward, towards home.

“Inias?”

The silence was his answer. They were uneasy, the others, their nervousness a bitter tang flavoring the air. If he were a better leader, he would make some rousing _Today-is-not-the-day_ speech, something stirring and full of conviction. But he was no king and Dean was no Frodo, and there was no Mount Doom they could drop the First Blade into, not that that would fix anything anyway.

A faint puff of air blew across his cheek, disrupting his musing. Without warning someone was shoving his head up and backwards, so all he saw was the charcoal gray ceiling of the minivan above him. He thrashed and shoved weakly, trying to free himself from his unknown assailant. Everything careened drunkenly as Joanna slammed hard on the brakes, shouts of alarm and the sounds of Eliam struggling to reach him as the minivan rolled off the road. Everything spun around him except the thing suddenly at the center of his vision, Hannah’s face, her lake blue eyes dilated almost to black with panic and desperation and fervor. She pinched his head up by the nose, forcing his mouth open as she slanted her lips harshly over his, burning grace, grace and smoke, pouring down into his mouth, clawing its way down his throat, like lava and salvation and _wings_. He would have reeled except he was already sitting, trapped by Hannah’s vessel now slumped against him. He felt Eliam’s hands shaking him but it felt far, far away, everything fading as bright, bright, starry images flashed with overwhelming quickness across his mind— _Heaven_ , flash, _Hell_ , flash, _the Book_ , flash, _Dean_ , flash, _trap_ , flashflash, _Ramiel_ , flashflash flash _fear trap trap TRAP_ flashflashflash.

A screamed tore out of his throat, ripping out of his chest as everything rearranged itself, everything hurting and hurting and he went on screaming and screaming until blessed darkness descended.

******

“Yeager, get Jake to hold his horses. We’re not far. You don’t want to be messing with twenty of these things with just the two of you. What?…No, a head shot won’t do it. No, we haven’t tried the silver stakes, those things are too damned bitey. You really don’t want to get bit, man... yeah, fire should do it, but… ” Sam glanced around to check where they were, “…yeah…I know…yeah. NO. _Wait_ for us.” 

With a silent _fuck_ , Sam disconnected the call and flipped to the map app, looking at the traffic alerts.

“Where to?”

“St. Louis.”

“Yeager?”

“Chompin’ at the bit, as usual.” Sam huffed with frustration. “Warehouse on 23rd and McKinley street. Better step on it, you know how Yeager is.” Sam glanced in the side mirror at the SUV behind them. “I’ll let Zee know.”

******

He should have known better when they pulled up and saw Yeager’s muddy red pickup parked next to the warehouse doors. This was how they always got into trouble hunting with Yeager and Jake, rushing in half-cocked because Yeager had jumped the gun, but he couldn’t just stand there when he heard Jake’s bone curdling scream. He didn’t wait for the end of Sam’s short curse, nor for Zee to pull her SUV to a complete stop.

He teleported, the tail end of Sam’s aggravated “ _DEAN_!” fading into nothingness. He blinked into the middle of the mess without caring he was one of the things Jake and Yeager would normally be hunting, and whacked the head off the zombie chomping down on Jake with a single swing of the First Blade. Someone had buried the sucker in a baby blue tuxedo, and it was not a good look when the shirt ruffles were drooping wet and red, soaked through with the blood spurting from Jake’s neck as Jake convulsed one last time, the life already fading from his eyes. 

More zombies circled around, smacking their lips, _gray-dark gray-dark_ _hunger_ every way he looked, calculation in their milky white eyes, sizing him up like a T-Bone steak. He swung the First Blade angrily as one of the filthy bastards darted in, feinting and weaving, trying to rip another piece off Jake’s body. The ancient weapon thrummed in his hand as he swung again, hoping to hell that by now Jake was dead-dead, because no matter how hard he tried, Jake was getting ripped to pieces, gross slurping sounds and ravenous chewing coming from the fuckers all around him. He kept hacking away, a head here, a hand there, trying to keep them away, trying to buy enough time for whatever was left of Jake’s soul to break free of his meat suit and not get eaten. He couldn’t even see enough of Yeager left to identify and it should have been a friggin’ reaper’s job, to be here, to collect Jake and Yeager’s souls when they fell in battle, except the cowardly assholes were nowhere to be seen, and he was pretty sure he’d be able to see them now, demon sight and all.

“DEAN!”

He’d heard his name like that a thousand times, Sam shouting for him, in the middle of a fight, in the middle of chaos. His brother, and there was something he had to do, something he had to do about his brother. A dry papery hand grabbed his leg and he swung low—the First Blade cutting through it like butter because it was hot in his hand, hot like the ember glow on his arm. He had to take care of this, obliterate the stench of death and starvation all around him, the miasma of it filling his lungs like the putrid ripe smell of the guts spread all over the ground, and Sam was in the way. 

“GET OUT! _DAMMIT, SAMMY, GO_!”

He barked out the order, as sharp and clear as Dad ever had, trying to find Sam in the melee. It was hard to _see_ , everything mixed up, everything confused. The things around him—they weren’t light, they weren’t dark, they weren’t death, they weren’t life. They were just _hungry_. He turned a full 360, the First Blade mowing down whatever was in his reach, thinning out the obsessive cacophony that was a howling need around him, trying to keep it together, trying to get a count.

_Don’tcountSamDon’tcountSamDon’tcountSam._

Rage flared up his arm, obliterating his concentration, rage and fury and frustration. Try as he might, he couldn’t _see_ Sam, it was all one big gray blur, going in and out of focus, nauseating when he tried to look.

_Come on, come on._

_THINK._

_LISTEN_.

There. The sharp whisper of a samurai blade, the whoosh of a machete, _THERE._ He grabbed them before he lost them again in the foaming sea of gray, and threw as hard as he could, blasting a path for them to the sunlight far away framed by the doorway, before the burning in his arm roared up and consumed him.

******

Her sword was arcing up, aiming for an armpit when she was thrown off balance, flying through the air and slicing through nothing. She landed with a thud that jarred clear through her hip and up her elbow, then _skidded_ , sliding uncontrolled through several feet of slippery reek and slime, green-black and pulpy like apple butter on the warehouse floor. She slipped in the gooey mess before scrambling awkwardly to her feet, confused by the clear space around her, like someone had nuked the zombies around them and blasted a path to the door while throwing her twenty feet through the air towards it. Before she could take a step she was being bodily hauled up, Sam lifting her clear off her feet, his face set and grim as he made a beeline for the warehouse door, half carrying her along. He didn’t slow down until they burst into the daylight air, dragging her and careening to the right, away from the open door, throwing himself down on top of her as some force blasted the steel door clear off its hinges behind them, leaving behind the acrid scent of ozone and death. 

Sam rolled off of her and got to his feet. He was covered in the same foul gunk she was, green-black zombie blood and pulp streaked down his jeans and jacket. He held out a hand and pulled her up.

“You okay?”

She nodded, her eyes on the angel blade in his hand and the darkness in his eyes.

“Stay here.”

It wasn’t a request. Sam didn’t wait for an answer as he dove back into the warehouse, shoulders rigid down to the brittle tension in his arm, the silver blade balanced loosely in his right hand as if it burned to hold it.

A rivulet of stank green blood beaded at the tip of her sword, dropping heavily down to the ground. She looked at it, at the blood smear glistening on her jeans and caking her boots. With a practiced motion she flicked the katana clean and sheathed it. It was useless now. Useless against the demon inside the warehouse, the one that Sam was going to try to _talk_ down.

She squinted against the bright midday sunlight. _Telekinesis_. It was a new power, born of desperation. Born of that damned stubborn protective streak. He was digging heedlessly into the demon’s powers, stepping down the slippery slope. It’d be harder to come back; it should have been impossible already. There’d been far more than twenty zombies in there—closer to thirty, thirty-five—ravenous, poisonous, toxic even to him—and to wipe them out in self-defense should have been the demon’s first instinct. But it wasn’t. The man held the demon back from nuking everything; moving heaven and earth to save what mattered to him.

_Sam._

Her hand went back to the pommel of her sword as she looked around the littered warehouse yard, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling uneasily. There was something wrong with this whole setup. It felt all wrong, too easy wrong, baited trap wrong. The obvious danger would be the demon inside, but that wasn’t it. Her eyes landed on Yeager’s truck. She didn’t know Jake and she didn’t know Yeager, except by reputation. The truck door was unlocked, the weapons cache in the cab left open, exposed, like Jake and Yeager had been in a real damned hurry. It looked like they’d pulled half the arsenal, machetes, silver stakes, shotguns, holy water, propane, whatever they’d thought might work. It was a disorganized mess—far too disorderly for two seasoned hunters—rushing into something without scouting it out first, as if something had superseded their normal caution.

She picked through the loose papers on the floor of the cab. Gas station receipts, bits from old case files, fast food wrappers. A bright purple bead rolled out and settled underneath the gas pedal when she pulled on a newspaper clipping wedged into the driver’s seat. Leaning over, she retrieved the gaudy spark of color and looked at it. Crayola purple and plastic, it wasn’t any kind of bead that belonged in a charm or hex. It looked like part of a toy. It really looked like…

_Shit._

She climbed into the driver’s seat and tugged the visor down. Nothing. She opened the overhead cubby for sunglasses, then flipped rapidly through the glove compartment. License, registration, tire gauge, backup 9mm. Frantically she searched through every compartment and cubby in the cab of the truck, emptying out the crumpled scraps of Yeager’s life onto the driver’s seat. _Yeager’s_ life.

Not Jake’s.

God dammit.

Leaning over the stick shift she reached up and flipped down the passenger side sun visor, running her fingers over the fabric. She found the slit cut above the mirror easily and tugged on the stiff paper corner of the photograph wedged behind it. 

What was rule _ONE_ of hunting?

Don’t do _this_.

In the photograph was a smiling brunette, red Santa hat perched jauntily on her head at an angle, the clean white fuzzy puff at the end dangling merrily over the head of a little girl, rainbow colored bracelet of plastic beads on her wrist. Long brown curly hair, bright green eyes, the smile of an angel in a green velvet Christmas frock, shiny chocolate brown Mary Janes on her stockinged feet and Zee swore, backing out of the truck in a hurry. She swept the yard left to right, scanning the weedy outcrops that had grown up through the cracks in the paving, looking up at the checkerboard of broken window panes, over the line of the roof two stories above.

Silence.

Nothing but silence and an uneasy feeling, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck. There was no sound coming from inside the warehouse, none at all.


	60. Start Me Laughing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Dead Confederates.

Heartbeats.

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump.thumpthump.thump, hammering and hammering. Near and far, racing and incessantly drumming, thundering against his ears and he just wanted it to stop.

He wanted it all to stop.

Ba-Thump. BA-THUMP.THUMP.BATHUMPTHUMP.

He whirled on the source of the sound nearest to him.

A flash of silver, cutting and bright, held in its hand.

_Gray thing._

BA-THUMP.

It was writhing, the gray thing. Wreathed in uncertainty and doubt and guilt and darkness and it was approaching him with bright pain in its hand.

He wanted it to stop.

A snarl sprang from his throat, a deep low growl like a cornered animal. A wise thing would have heeded the warning. A smart thing would have stopped, but the gray thing kept coming.

Doubt and sorrow like an approaching storm, threatening to drown him.

He couldn’t let it drown him.

The brand on his arm heated up. Warm and comforting. Sure. The job his Father had given him.

Hunt.

He swung the weapon in his hand, pouring the fire and conviction hot on his arm into the swing, but the gray thing moved. The blade swept past its abdomen, slicing clean through layers of cloth down to bare skin. A tingling buzz shot up his arm. _This was what he was supposed to do._

_This would make it all stop._

The silver pain in the gray thing’s hand came up, came closer. He gripped his weapon more firmly and lowered his shoulder, preparing to knock the bright pain aside when the gray thing suddenly lowered it.

_Dean._

Who?

It was looking at him. THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP, its heartbeats faster and drumming away like a head pounding _KISS_ number, breath all tangled up and knotted, something stupid in its eyes, something stupid like someone used to do, once upon a time, such a long time ago, before he’d screwed everything up and lost it all. He could still hear the voice.

_I'm saying, you want to work? Let's work. If you want to be brothers..._

The Mark on his arm burned hot.

_Do this. Do this, and everything will be okay._

His arm quivered, watching the bright pain stay stationary and lowered and unmoving in the gray thing’s hand.

It was barely a whisper.

_Dean._

He blinked because everything went fuzzy.

Sam?

There was a giant gash in Sam’s shirt, like something had cut it wide open.

The First Blade was in his hand.

Ohgodohgod _ohgod_.

Cold shuddered through him, numbing his fingers, and he dropped the jackass’ jawbone, dropped to his knees and heaved up breakfast and dinner and yesterday’s lunch. Cold racked through him, violent and unrelenting. He put one hand on the ground to support himself, except the ground was slippery, entrails and pulp and zombie mush, rank and thick, squishing up between his fingers and he heaved again, bitter bile and blood torn out of him, everything pulled out of him until he was a shell and he was cold.

He should be cold. He would rather be _cold_.

Another spasm convulsed him until he doubled over. He would have fallen face forward into the slime and his own vomit except for Sam’s arm sliding around him, Sam holding him up, Sam grabbing on tight and not letting go. He could feel the thready panic in Sam’s words, Sam’s voice breaking as Sam looked at all the blood he had coughed up, the traces of which he could still feel on his lips and smell.

“Oh god, I’ve got you. Oh god. Hey. Hey hey. It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He grabbed Sam’s jacket with one fist, right at the cut edge in it, bunching up Sam’s shirt beneath. He forced his eyes to focus, looking for blood.

“Hey.” Sam seized his other shoulder, grip tight and reassuringly firm. “It’s okay. You didn’t get me. It’s just the clothes. Just the shirt. You didn’t get me. You didn’t know.”

Didn’t he?

_Do this. Do this Do this Do this and it will all be okay._

He shook his head to get rid of the insistent whispering filling his ears and fisted his hand tighter, his fingers digging into the wad of plaid flannel like it could sop up all the blood and put out the fire.

Except flannel burned.

With a hoarse yelp he let go. His stomach convulsed, wrenching in painfully on itself, and he gagged again, his blood tangy and metallic, iron-sour in his mouth, coming out as a spitting cough. With a twist he yanked out of Sam’s supporting embrace and found his feet shakily over the numbness of his knees, his eyes skimming over the revealed swath of Sam’s skin to check again for a cut, to make sure Sam wasn’t lying to him, because Sammy was holding something back.

The sound of footsteps distracted him. He would have tensed, but he recognized Zee’s light tread. She was picking her way across the warehouse floor to them, holding something in her hand. She had to pick her way because the floor was a mess. The floor of a slaughterhouse, slick with zombie guts and strangely wet red-green-black bits, reminiscent of hell.

Where he belonged.

Another tremor rocked him. He waved off the concerned reaching of Sam’s hands, cinched his lips in grimly, watching the way Zee’s eyes flicked to the gaping gash in Sam’s shirt and then to Sam’s face, that tiny head shake Sam gave her, _it’s nothing, it’s fine_. It was _not_ fine, it was anything but fine, and he half expected her to _do something_ about it.

Amber eyes that burned like whiskey went like a laser scan over his face, and moved on.

_What_?

She was looking past him, past his shoulder, all around the warehouse, along the walls, paying no attention to him and the threat he posed at all. What the hell? She kept looking around as if she were searching for something, moving incautiously towards him so she could see around him to the spot where Jake had been. Was she stupid? Did she not see? The exploded zombie bits all around them. The gash in Sam’s shirt. _Everything he’d done. Everything he’d become_. It was sheer folly to be standing where she was, her shoulder inches away from his chest, as if she were perfectly safe within his reach.

He was about to step back, push her away, one or the other, when her lips tightened, staring at something behind him. He turned to see what she was looking at and saw nothing, nothing being an accurate description of the amorphous red smear that was left on the ground, the bloody mess of skin and guts and flesh that had once been his two friends. The torn sleeve of Yeager’s denim jacket, and a few feet away, Jake’s stupid affectation of a hat. A scattering of color between the two things, like Skittles strewn carelessly into the muck, bright spots of sunny yellow and primary blue, red and orange and green and purple, absurdly untouched and plastic looking, like they might be some kind of toy beads.

Unease coalesced in his stomach. It brushed down the hairs on his arm like a kiss of frost.

He snatched the bit of paper Zee was holding out of her hand. A photograph. It was a photograph. Some strip mall photo booth shot of a woman in a Santa cap holding a little girl on her knee, both of them laughing. His eyes locked on the rainbow colored bracelet around the girl’s wrist. 

His hand shook.

“I…” He stared at the spots of color on the ground, trying to remember. It had all been a blur, Jake screaming, the rank undead grabbing at him, their unbearable _hunger_ , all of it pressing in and in on him, loud, and he hadn’t _seen_ anything else, _felt_ anyone else.

Had he?

In a panic he turned to Sam, the worried expression on Sam’s face. _Gray thing, gray thing_ rang through his mind and he gulped, shaking violently all over again, _trying_ to remember. He hadn’t _seen_ , and he wasn’t sure he would have, when the Mark burned and everything blurred. He smelled of blood and guts and sulfur, like Hell, like now. His eyes fell to the slashed edges of Sam’s jacket, and he tried to get words out around the clog of bile in his throat and he couldn’t _remember_.

“Did I?…..I…. I didn’t …..I don’t…”

His voice trembled, unable to find the words or to form them.

Cool hands framed his face, her thumbs over his cheeks. She tugged his face downward, insistent, a command to be obeyed. He looked down, into those eyes of pure whiskey, sharp and warm at the same time.

“No.”

She sounded sure. How could she be so sure?

He tried to turn around, to look again at the mess he made, the things he’d done, but her hands locked on his face, stronger than he expected, keeping his gaze on her.

“No. It was already done. You were too late.”

It was the preferable sin. Her voice was firm. Clear. There was no give and no quarter, and she wasn’t making excuses for him as Sam might have done. He closed his eyes, willing himself to draw a steadying breath. She swiped one thumb gently against his cheek, brushing away the wetness there before it could leave a traitorous track. He would have felt shame for his weakness, except there was no room for it in her eyes, because it was a feeling, and feelings weren’t _relevant_.

He breathed again, straightening. She gave his face another quick scan, checking that he had his shit together before she let him go, swiping the blood off his lips with another quick efficient stroke of her thumb. She bent down and picked the First Blade off the ground like she did it all the time, no muss, no fuss, and handed it to Sam. Sam took it wordlessly, because Sam knew, they both knew, he couldn’t bear to touch it just now.

He looked around the warehouse again, hesitating before he _felt_ around. Nothing. He glanced up at the rafters, gray daylight trickling in through the grimy windows near the ceiling, illuminating the mess on the ground. A trap within a trap—this had that feeling to it. He was being guided and driven, pushed and prodded, to somewhere he didn’t want to go. The urge was to bolt, to blow this joint, but there was one thing he had to do first.

“Get the gas.”

Sam started when he said that, with a quick glance around saying there was too much to burn, but he caught Sam’s eye resolutely. They weren’t going to just leave Yeager and Jake and Jake’s family tangled up in this mess, whatever was left of them.

Zee flashed him a quick glance, but he didn’t budge. Maybe it was foolish, maybe it was in vain, but if there was any hope at all, they deserved better. What was left of them deserved a hunter’s funeral. He wasn’t going to leave them to chance, stuck here and doomed to become ghosts, turning into the things they had once hunted. Sam caught Zee’s eye too, his arguments that it was already too late, that they should just bail, held at the ready, because that unnerving feeling that they were standing between the jaws of a bear trap would not have escaped either of them.

Zee blew out a soundless stream of air before she decided.

“Come on.” She said curtly to Sam. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”


	61. Ridin' the Storm Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by REO Speedwagon.

She should have left them then, outside that warehouse in St. Louis, except for the brittle silence that hung over the boys like thin ice, not looking at each other, each of them lost in their own thoughts. 

“Come on.” She’d said sharply. “Granby’s a full day’s drive.”

“What’s in Granby?” Sam asked mechanically.

“Probable salt and burn.” _Something simple._ _Straightforward._

Dean glanced up. The overkill was obvious. Any one of them could have managed a straight up salt and burn on their own, and they had better things to do. His lips pursed tight as he glanced back at the smoking warehouse behind them.

“Sam.”

With a flick of his wrist he tossed the Impala’s keys to his brother. Sam caught them reflexively, staring at them like he’d just caught a live viper, before grim resolution closed over his hand and his face.

“Highway 70?”

“It’s usually fastest.”

Sam nodded acknowledgement, opening the Chevy’s driver side door before he stopped and looked at the bloody weapon in his other hand. He bit his lips as Dean watched him, and turned back around towards the Impala’s trunk. Without looking at his brother, he lifted the trunk lid and the secret panel and deposited the First Blade carelessly into the trunk’s weapons cache.

Shielded from his brother’s scrutiny by the lid of the trunk, Sam glanced her way. The dead eyes of a hunter, the things he needed to do closing in on him. If not now, someday—someday or die trying.

She held his gaze without speaking.

_No, not yet._

_Not yet._


	62. Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Season 2, Episode 17 "Heart", the one with werewolf Madison.
> 
> Chapter title is from song originally by Nine Inch Nails. There's also a Johnny Cash cover with a fantastically chilling video; I am partial to the version by Aaron Gibson.

_Sam._

_Save me, Sam._

The .45 was heavy in his hand. He looked down at a curl of Madison’s dark hair, watching her slender fingers wrap his hand around the butt of the gun, the scent of her floral perfume filling his nostrils. Her almond shaped eyes, the ones that he’d thought looked so exotic, once filled with hope and impish challenge, now wet with tears.

_Please, Sam. I’m asking you to save me._

He needed both hands to hold the gun steady. He blinked furiously, clearing out his eyes, because he needed to be able to see. The safety was off, she wouldn’t hear it, and it’d be quick.

He just needed to aim steady.

He jolted awake with a gasp, sitting straight up in the motel bed. The blue light of the television flickered over the Wild West themed walls. Dean glanced over at him from where he was lounging on the next bed and raised a questioning eyebrow. He shook his head in response, fumbling around the nightstand for his glass of water.

_Save me, Sam._

He squeezed his eyes hard shut. He hadn’t had that particular nightmare in years. Abruptly he got up, throwing off the covers, and headed to the bathroom. His T-shirt was soaked through. He’d have to peel it off and get a fresh one, but he put that off, letting the water run cool into the sink before he splashed some on his face. 

Wake up. Wake the fuck up.

Muted grinding and smashing sounds came from the television. From the brief glance he’d had, it was original version Godzilla, deconstructing Tokyo. One of Dean’s favorites, like that weirdly addictive daytime drama had been Maddie’s favorite. Her house, her rules. He hadn’t thought about that show in years.

Would it be like this,

_…after?_

An invisible fist contracted around his chest, squeezing all the air out. He huffed once. Twice. Three times. Four. He took another shaky breath and sat down hard on the closed toilet seat and put his head down between his knees. 

He wouldn’t think about it.

_After._

He straightened up cautiously. Slowly. His abs ached. He peeled his sweat damp T-shirt up gingerly, looking at the thin line that was a blue-black bruise running horizontally beneath his ribs. He grit his teeth and let his shirt back down. He should have grabbed a clean shirt on his way to the bathroom. Dean would ask too many questions if he went and got one now, and the jig would definitely be up if he ducked back in here to change.

He put his head in his hands, trying to get himself squared away.

_Help me, Sam._

His hands went over his ears, trying to shut out Madison’s voice. Trying to shut out what he needed to do. He’d been so optimistic that things were at least stable. He’d been so hopeful they’d find another way. Then and now, and it all ended the same.

He couldn’t do it.

Someday in the future, alone in a two-bit motel bathroom just like this one, waking up from the nightmare where he’d killed Dean. Flipping past some Godzilla remake number 22 on TV, thinking how Dean would have hated it. Not being able to change out of his shirt into a clean one, because nothing would ever be clean again.

He drew in a harsh breath. It would have been easier, then, back there in that warehouse, to have dropped the angel blade in his hand, and let it happen. Death or hell or heaven or nothing, did it matter? It wasn’t this. Saving _people,_ hunting _things._ How could this _possibly_ be the right thing to do?

It sure as hell didn’t feel like it.

Not then, not now.


	63. Like A Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Chris Cornell.

He’d been looking after Sam since before Sam could walk. A lot of it he didn’t so much remember as he just knew; like that time when Sam scraped his knees raw learning how to ride a bike but tried to cover it up. Or that first time Sam broke his arm, how badly it had hurt when Sam said it was no big deal. And after all these years Sam _still_ kept trying to hide shit from him, as if he wouldn’t notice the pained twinge that went across Sam’s face when the shovel in Sam’s hands bounced off the frozen ground, trying to dig up the grave of one Margaret McGuire, angry ghost and ex-chef of the Little Red B&B, who liked her unfaithful fiancées filleted.

He shucked out of his jacket impatiently and took the shovel away from Sam, ignoring Sam’s automatic protests, and shoved the shotgun he was holding into his little brother’s hands.

“Just keep Julia Child off my back.”

Sam straightened, a little too stiffly, moving the way Sam had moved the two or three days right after he’d gotten whacked across the ribs during that run-in with the Banshees.

Only there hadn’t been any Banshees, this time.

His lips bent down hard. The wooden handle of the shovel creaked in protest when he rammed the blade into the ground with unnecessary force. From where she stood guard at the grave’s headstone Zee threw him a look— _cool it_. His mouth turned down harder. With a booted foot he stomped the shovel blade into the unyielding soil, trying to work out the thing churning hot and agitated in his chest. It was six feet down to Ms. Margaret’s bones, through cold ground as hard as rock, and any other day he’d have rock-paper-scissored Sam for the dubious honors. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at where Sam was standing by a headstone one over, Sammy’s back too ramrod straight in the starlit darkness, overcompensating for his injury; his eyes scanning left and right and seeing nothing, his mind a thousand miles away.

He didn’t bother asking, because he knew what Sam would say.

_Everything’s fine, Dean. See? It’s nothing._

Sammy had always been a rotten liar.


	64. That Day Never Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Metallica.

“Billings. We’re going to Billings.”

“Dean.”

Sam had that reasoning tone to his voice. Dean set the newspaper down on the diner table with a whap.

“Billings or Tulsa. Or Kearny. Or Clarksville. Or Chicago. Or Nashville. Take your pick. Hell, pick anywhere. The shit’s busting loose at the seams, Sammy. How long did you think we could ride the pine?”

He avoided looking at Zee, sitting across the table from him. If he felt out with his _senses_ , he’d be able to feel it, the roil bubbling through the dark side that Ramiel was kicking up. Ghosts, on the edge of sanity, punching through the Veil. Zombies, driven by an insatiable hunger, ripping through the fabric of existence. Heaven and Hell colliding, light and dark blending into a dirty bachelor’s gray. It oozed all around them like puddles of viscous muck, swallowing everything in its path.

“Twelve year old bites classmate’s ear off. Occult killer suspected of ritual cannibalism in Oceanside.” He jabbed at the headlines on the paper with a finger. “Couple abducted, whereabouts unknown in Greenville, second time this month. Man attacks family on subway with a butter knife. Decapitated teen found with all limbs chewed off by wild animals. Any of this ringing a bell?”

Exasperation flickered across Sam’s face.

He didn’t ask Sam what he’d learned from Garth last night, a whole bunch of _yeah, no, aw craps, not now, not yet_ s on Sam’s end of the call, Sammy solemn and quiet as he hung up the phone, like he had been back at the bunker, when Timmy, Jimmy and Mary Sue hadn’t answered that morning’s roll call and Dean wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t have to.

He’d chosen the case in Billings with care. They wouldn’t be able to turn it down. For one, it was too close to Cody. If nothing else, it meant Zee would go along with the plan, because some priorities outranked others.

Sam’s face puckered.

“Maybe we should re-think this, Dean.” Sam stated lowly.

He should have left well enough alone, all those years ago, back at Stanford. He could have handled it alone, the hunts and the life, with a few more bruises and a lot more whiskey, but he would have managed. He should never have come back the second time. He should have left Sam with the girl and the dog, and it would never have come to this, the doubt in his brother’s eyes.

Beneath the table his hand fisted. He kept his eyes hooded, remembering the shadow of death over Sam’s shoulder. _His_ shadow. His jaw clenched. He looked up and met Sam’s gaze square on. He didn’t even blink the slightest when he lied to Sam through his teeth.

“Trust me, Sam. I’ll be fine. C’mon, hurry up. Let’s do this.”

******

She hadn’t expected the school when they got to the address Dean spat out that morning. The small parking lot out front was full of parked cars, but the building was eerily silent.

“ _Shit._ ” was Sam’s quiet imprecation, staring at the darkened building.

“Sam, see if you can find the kids. We’ll do a sweep.” Dean was already moving towards the back entrance, not waiting for Sam to argue. Sam opened his mouth, then shut it again when something fluttered in one of the windows.

“Go.” She said shortly. “It’ll be fine. We’ll meet up inside. Just go.”

******

She had to watch where she stepped, over half eaten bodies and overturned chairs and scattered bloody textbooks. The undead came bursting out of janitor’s closets and closed utility rooms, from behind doors and around corners, in ones and in twos. Dean cut and she salted and burned, leaving a trail of smoldering body parts behind them as they made their way down the wide hallway.

“Heads up!”

She ducked, feeling the whistle of Dean’s machete swinging overhead. She splashed gasoline on the ambulatory cadaver closest to her, then threw the lit match to follow. The whoosh of flame kissed her hair and she backed up, keeping an ear on the thud of body parts Dean was dropping behind her. She took another matchbook out of her pocket, splashed gasoline on a twitching leg that came flying her way, and lit that. Another. Three. Four. She moved faster, trying to keep up, listening uneasily to the increasing number of shuffling footsteps.

An arm re-joined a torso and it rolled away before she could torch it. She knew the exact moment when it was too much, too many; the moment when Dean’s machete clattered loudly onto the ground. She kept doggedly at what she was doing, until the next head that rolled by her feet stared lifelessly up at her, not a twitch, not a twitter, echoing the sudden eerie silence behind her.

She set the gas can down and slowly turned.

She’d been aware this was a possibility. It was bound to happen sometime. Dark demonic eyes looked back at her in Dean’s expressionless face, remote, the way the demon’s always was. She had the angel blade in her hand without thinking about it, but not gripped loosely the way Sam always held his. She braced herself, her shoulders tensed, tracking the movement of the lethal jawbone.

The tip of the First Blade dipped, and then stayed still.

Her eyes flew up to his face. The demon turned more towards her, arms held wide open in blatant invitation.

_Come on._

_DO IT._

The point of the First Blade dipped even more. His arm shook with the effort of holding still. She looked into eyes that were as black as night, and somehow not dark at all.

_Come ON._

_DO IT._

His eyes were black but she would have sworn they were _green_. 

… _Billings, he had said, looking straight at her._

_…Sam, go and see if you can find the kids…_ when Sam was usually the one standing here.

The Mark lit ember red beneath his sleeve and still he didn’t move.

_Please._

_Save Sam._

_Sam_. Standing where she stood, time after time, each time like the slow cut of a knife. No matter which way things went down, Sam died. Body or soul, did it matter? Sam died. Her hand shook, and she gripped the cold silver tighter, resisting the understanding twining bitterly around her.

The weapon in her hand was a lead weight. Her breath rasped out harsh and uneven, her fingers gone icy numb. She couldn’t make her elbow bend no matter how hard she tried, couldn’t stop pure ice from spreading to every limb, frozen still when she should have moved. She wouldn’t get this chance again. All she had to do was take five steps forward while holding his gaze, somehow sunlit green behind the black, drive the blade through skin and heart, one blow quick enough to shatter her own, his hand warm on the small of her back, Sam’s echoing _noooooo_ ringing in her ears.

The angel blade fell from her hand, clanking loudly onto the ground.

Dean surged forward. His left arm snaked around her waist, pulling her unresisting to him, enveloping her in heat and canvas, her nose muffled into the rough fabric of his jacket, his arm like a steel band around her waist, hauling her off her toes. She hung limply when he swung around, lugging her with him like a dead weight, beheading the reassembled zombie that had crept up behind her with one swing of the First Blade.

Sam’s footsteps came pounding up, his eyes going straight to the death grip Dean had around her.

“What happened?”

She shoved violently out of Dean’s grip, not looking at the brilliant green of his eyes. She was breathing in small gasps, ignoring the reluctant drag of his fingertips against her waist as he let her go. She stumbled awkwardly over her own feet; all of her ice, ice cold. She didn’t speak, she didn’t shake, and Sam’s voice pitched up with concern.

“ _What happened?_ "

She didn’t look at Sam. She didn’t look at either of them. She stared down at her boots. She should have run from the outset. It was rule number one.

“Nothing.” Dean answered curtly into the stretching silence.

She shut her ears to his voice, not letting it vibrate her to her toes, not even when he spoke again.

“The kids?”

“Got ‘em. I called 911, so we should bail.”

She shut out Sam’s voice too. Keys. Keys. She needed her car keys. She fumbled in her pocket for them, her feet moving her towards the entryway down the hall, away from the sound of their voices. Her clumsy fingers dropped the suddenly small key ring as she stepped out onto the pavement. She would have picked them up, but before she could try, the keys were being pressed into her hand, her car keys and the angel blade she had dropped. She stared down at both objects blankly, refusing to look up.

“Zee?” Sam asked from one side, real worry creeping into Sam’s voice now.

The SUV was a few feet in front of her. Her fingers shook out the keys and pressed the unlock button before she could drop them again. She stepped left, knowing _he_ wouldn’t get in her way. She pulled open the car door.

“Zee?” Sam asked again. She heard Sam’s anxious footfalls following her.

“Sam.” _She wasn’t listening._

“Sam. Come on.” _Keys into the ignition._

“SAM!” That barked sharply, a direct order. A flurry of footsteps, then the footsteps moved away.

_Close the door._ _Turn the keys._

Drive.

******

It was the peak of rush hour. Traffic slowed to a crawl, bumper-to-bumper brake lights glowing red in every lane, punctuating the blue-gray dusk of twilight. Dean drove with one hand on the wheel, not speaking, the stereo off, staring at the Durango’s bumper, two cars ahead of them.

Sam shifted uneasily in his seat, not taking his eyes off the SUV partially obscured by the traffic. A police cruiser sped by on the left shoulder, heading for whatever accident was up ahead. The minivan in front of them inched slowly forward.

A small gap opened up ahead in the right lane. Without warning, Zee veered the Durango horizontally into it, narrowly avoiding the bumper of the F-150 in front. The delivery truck she’d just cut off blared its horn, the driver waving a one-finger salute angrily out the window.

Sam sat up.

Another bare gap opened in the far right lane. Zee shot the Durango into barely enough space without signaling again, drawing another blare of irate honking.

“Dean.” He glanced over at Dean, where Dean had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, mutely watching the SUV pull away.

Sam checked their right, cursing as the gas tanker pulled up even. He turned back to Dean, expecting him to signal to change lanes to follow, only to find Dean staring straight ahead, not doing a damned thing.

“Dean!” He barked.

Dean inched the Impala forward, not even trying to find an opening in the traffic.

He glared at Dean and reached into his pocket for his phone to call Zee. Before he could even get a grip on it, his phone whistled out of his hand and out of the car. Through the suddenly opened window he heard his phone land with a plastic plonk followed by a crunch as the gas tanker rolled right over it.

“ _DEAN!_ _What the hell?”_ If he noticed Dean still had both hands on the wheel, he was too riled to care. “WHAT HAPPENED BACK THERE?”

Dean fixed his gaze on the shrinking spot that was the Durango, and grit his teeth in a stubborn, fragile silence.

He had a backup phone. He was reaching for it when Dean shot him a glare.

Sam narrowed his eyes. He remembered the last time Dean had looked at him like that, outside the hospital in Battle Creek where Cas had memory wiped Lisa and Ben.

“Dean. What did you do?”

One corner of Dean’s mouth quirked down, hard and self-deprecating.

“Nothing.”

“Then _what happened?_ ”

Dean kept his eyes on the minivan ahead. A muscle ticked on the hard line of his jaw. “Nothing, Sam. She wants out, she’s getting out. Just drop it.”

“Dean, we can’t. We promised Toby we’d look out for her.” Demons _and_ angels, now on her ass, who knew what else Dean didn’t know about and he was damned if he was going to just let it go. He pulled out his backup phone, flipping the cheap burner open. “She’ll be a lot safer at the bunker. We haven’t been back in a while anyway. I’ll …”

His finger stabbed through a whole lot of nothing and into his palm. From outside the car came a second crunch.

“DEAN! WHAT THE FUCK?”

“ _DROP._ _IT. SAM._ ”

Dean’s words were a growl, grated and broken like glass, and Sam shut the fuck up. One corner of his mind quietly noted that Dean had rolled the Impala’s window back up without once taking his hands off the wheel.

“ _Leave her alone_ , Sam. Don’t track her.”

Sam glanced down at his left shoe, worrying at the inside of his cheek. He didn’t agree, he couldn’t agree, but he knew from long experience it was useless to argue with Dean when he was like this. If he kept an eye on Zee’s location, it was only for Dean’s own good. And he’d promised Toby. He _had_ to keep an eye on her.

“ _Sam_.”

Dean bit off his name like an order, reading what he was thinking. Sam slouched down in the seat and deliberately let his hands fall lax. He turned his face toward the window, staring past his reflection at the gas tanker’s polished bumper, memorizing the exit they’d just passed.

“Sure. Alright. Yeah.”


	65. A Teardrop to the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Bon Jovi.

She ran like a bat out of hell, only hell chased her. When bug splatter occluded the windshield she cleaned it. When the SUV ran out of gas she refilled it. When the horn and headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler woke her she pulled over and slept in the driver’s seat until she woke and drove again. She looked only at the road, ignoring the green lushness of rolling hills after pale desert, the curl of new leaves on the grape vines along the River Road, the shadowy jade green of the cypress branches leaning out over the sea. A cow got in her way, about ten miles north of Jenner where the highway cruised through ranchland. She waited and waited for the brown behemoth to finally decide to cross the road, it’s hooves clomping loudly over the steel drainage grate. From there the road dipped down to the Pacific, teasing the cliff edges with its hairpin curves.

She could have stopped sooner. Dunoir, or Unionville, both perfectly fine safe houses with perfectly sound devil’s traps, nothing for miles and miles but the pressing embrace of land, but she kept driving. She wanted the horizon, blue sky and blue ocean from Stewart’s Point to Black Point, white waves breaking endlessly against rocky promontories that dropped jaggedly into the sea. The fog would roll in with the tide, cool gray mist erasing the world outside, erasing time and erasing thought.

How was it possible still to dream? A touch, a butterfly kiss, so soft she was barely sure it was there, her legs tangling in the sheets, lingering too long in sleep. The taste of apple pie, cinnamon and sugar and coffee and cream, sweet on her lips. Fingers stroking along the inside of her wrist, up the back of her hand, down the center of her palm, nothing there when she closed her hand around empty air.

She bought more spray paint and doubled down on the demon wards, red paint bisecting the skylights, adding the Enochian sigils almost as an afterthought. And _still_ in the hazy twilight between wakefulness and night, that ghostly warmth stayed with her. Dream or memory or reality, she no longer really knew. Strong arms curled around and wrapped her up, a familiar thumb stroking lazily against her collarbone, gathering her closer than close. She felt his solid strength behind her, warm all around her, and she let herself lean. Just for a minute. She brushed her lips against his hand on her shoulder, and her eyelids drifted slowly closed.

_Safe._

The mornings were cold when she slowly woke, and the daylight hurt. 


	66. Boulevard of Broken Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Green Day.

She spent the week at the coast house. A whole week, between jobs, stubbornly refusing to look at the job staring her in the eye, green eyes to black but not really black at all, and she couldn’t do it. She knew what he was asking, and it was the _right_ thing, an _impossible_ thing, and she had hesitated. Full out stopped. Because.

She couldn’t do it.

She went on walks. Miles and miles along the edge of cliffs, braving a stiff ocean breeze, hoping the wind could scour thoughts from her mind and feeling from her skin—the ghost of a touch, a thumb smoothing softly against her wrist, a kiss against her hair. Being out here was foolish in the extreme. She was un-warded, unshielded, bright as a beacon for anyone to find. But her feet carried her out of the house every morning without fail, trying to escape the angel blade in her garage, sitting accusingly on the front seat of the Durango where she’d dropped it, a job left undone.

So she walked.

On bright days when the sea was a brilliant blue, she got all the way out to the Point, wending her way through cypress hedgerows sculpted by wind. The meadows were thick with lupines and millipedes, and the clouds drifted by lazily, all fluffy and white. She found a large rock to climb onto at the end of the promontory, and just sat there, watching the waves fling themselves futilely at the shore, watching the pull of the tide out to sea.

She could just run. The long line of the horizon beckoned, and she could keep going, over that distant line of blue on the next day’s flight, and never look back. It could be done. There would be other jobs, other continents, and she could do that. She could just run, and it wouldn’t matter if Sam eventually managed to track her down, because she’d be a thousand miles and an ocean away, safe, far from the job she’d failed to do.

She pulled her phone from her pocket abruptly, staring out at the water. She’d turned it off somewhere between Rawlins and Ogden. She shouldn’t even have it. She should have chucked it way back when, or slipped in onto a passing 18 wheeler with the signal running three truck stops ago. As long as she had it, Sam would find her. Sam was stubborn that way.

_Please. Save Sam._

She slid down the craggy boulder she had been sitting on, and walked deliberately to the edge of the cliff, the phone held loosely in her hand. She could throw it now, and be done with it.

She raised her arm. Stopped. Stared at the pieces of sunlight glittering off the waves, crests of white dashing themselves into foam against the rocks. She had trained a lifetime to see the truth, to know the shadows that lurked in darkness. She had fought a lifetime, running, because the shadows were always there. They would always be.

But they were not _this_.

Saving _people,_ hunting _things,_ the desperate plea in his eyes, what he needed her to do.

How did she run from that?

******

The tumbler of whiskey he held between his palms should have made things better. It should have burned warm down his throat and taken the edge off, blurred the future and the past into a comfortable haze, instead of looking back at him with amber clarity, stripping him naked, right down to his tarred soul. It was always going to be this way, darkness and doom gathering around him like the eye of a storm, no light in the end, and it was about damned time she ran.

“Dean.”

The backlit map of the world glowed warmly in the bunker’s bleak gray anteroom. He stared at it blankly, not even thinking about it really, and he knew where they were. Where they all were. Lisa. Ben. Cassie. Robin. Sonny. Jody. Beth and Garth. A mere thought away, and he could be _there_ in the next second, dark murderous eyes in this world gone mad, the First Blade in his hand because they were all _gray things_ , and he had to be _careful_ what he thought about _._

“Hey.”

The chair across from him squeaked when Sam settled into it.

He couldn’t find _her_. Wherever she was. Yet his imagination held on to figments—the warmth of her in his arms, the ghost of a kiss, maddeningly there and gone again—double the torment because it wasn’t ever _real_. He couldn’t see Toby or Xavier or Kim either, and that was just as well. 

“Dean.”

He looked up slowly to see a shadowy blur of gray. This happened more and more now. He blinked hard to clear his vision, so he could see Sam, _Sammy_ , Sam’s brows furrowed together into a knot, trying to get his attention.

There was a hiccup in Sam’s breathing before Sam unfurled a map onto the table. A road map of the lower 48, red magic marker dots on it where Sam had been plotting something.

He jerked away from the crinkle of stiff paper, search incantations and spells flooding unbidden into his head. He could burn the map down to a cinder with a single look, and he would know where she was. He could whiskey spritz the Rand-McNally, say two words, and he would know. God, he wanted to know. His hands shook with the effort of keeping them locked around the tumbler, his hands of blood and fire and doom, and he had no right to be touching anything, no right at all.

There was more sympathy in Sam’s glance towards his abrupt motion than he wanted. But Sam kept the _feelings_ to himself, smoothing the map out so it lay more evenly, and pointed to one of the red X’s.

“El Santurio de Chimayo, a couple of priests found mutilated. Eyes burned out, the whole nine.” Sam tapped the X in New Mexico with a finger. “The place was tossed but nothing stolen. And same here.” Sam’s finger traveled northeast on the map up to Utah. “The Bountiful Tabernacle. Then here. South Baptist Church in Lincoln. I think they’re looking for something, the Fallen. Maybe the Book?“

He forced himself to look at the colored lines that were highways and shaded splotches that were cities. Sam’s definition of a distraction, a consolation prize, in the form of the job. Sam’s finger tapped across to the next spot circled in red on the interstate. He squinted at it.

“Detroit? What’s in Detroit?”

“St Anne’s.”

He stared at Sam’s earnest Labrador expression, detecting subterfuge. There was no way, _no way_ , the Fallen were leaving a trail of bodies clear across the country’s oldest churches, looking for the Book, held open by the unbound grace of an angel—Cas’ grace—as bright as a falling meteor, the stuff of miracles. There was no way that was sitting in someone’s basement like a glow stick bookmark, just waiting to be found. 

“No. They’re looking for something else.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Beside the Book of Life? What would they be looking for beside the Book of Life? I mean…”

Sam stopped dead, his mouth rounding on an “Oh.” followed by a “Crap.” followed by “You think they’re looking for Crowley? In a _church_?”

He shrugged, because it was Crowley. It was the kind of twisted logic Crowley’d get a kick out of, last place anyone would look for the King of Hell and all.

“It’d make sense; they’ve got Heaven. If they get the keys out of Crowley, then they’ve got it all.”

One world. No Heaven. No Hell.

“But…” Sam stuttered. “What the hell would they want with, you know, _Hell_?”

He looked at Sam. The face of his brother, harder and leaner now than when Sam had stood on the edge of that howling pit at Stull, saying “ _I’ve got him, Dean. I’ve got him._ ” The fate of the world on his shoulders and Sam had jumped, the puny will of a kid pitted against the towering will of an archangel, because pumping Sam’s veins full of demon blood hadn’t been enough. The arrogance of Lucifer versus the bright spark that had always been Sam, and Sam had won. Ramiel would know that. To squash that, it would take sin. Real, deep, sin-without-repentance sin, before everything could be made the same murky shade of gray. 

It was insane, to resurrect Hell’s dungeon masters, the kin of Alastair and Abaddon, to lock them into rotting corpses against their wills, crazed and vicious and eternally hungry—he set the tumbler down on the table and stood. They would eat the world and each other and Sam with it, tearing it all apart until there was nothing left, no way to distinguish one flavor of crazy from another, and that, that was what Ramiel wanted.

Everything the same. No way to pass judgment.

Those dark threads in Arkas’ grace—darker than the grayness of the vampires, darker than the sooty smoke of demons, widening cracks in the light, increasingly impossible to hide. They were Fallen, and _falling_. So they came up with a newer model—Suriel. Hiding tainted grace behind the brightness of a human soul, using a demon to sidestep the need for consent, everything put through the blender to become a single coil of white smoke, elusive and insubstantial and burningly bright in the otherwise gray murk, the only way to rise up through the angel-made fog, to become the new light in the darkness.

No judgment, his ass.

“No.” Sam breathed. “Even _fallen_ , they’re still angels, Dean. I can’t imagine them agreeing to that. Even if joining with demons to possess humans gives them more power, they’re too stuck up. It’d be crazy. They’d have to be so afraid, and I can’t think of anything the angels would be afraid of except…”

Sam’s words died, staring at him, also remembering Arkas. A single twist of his Blade to pull the darkness out explosively through the cracks in the Fallen’s grace, and the mist fall of ash that was all that remained of an angel. That was what _he_ did. Something he had done.

Sammy stopped breathing.

He watched the understanding settle onto Sam like lead weights, and it should have been enough to crush the Labrador out of Sam’s eyes, except Sam’s mouth firmed up into a line, chin setting and hands starting to wave around in a way Dean recognized, because yes, jumping Satan into the pit was a _totally_ sane idea.

“Sam.” He said warningly.

“So, St. Anne’s.” Sam pulled a second map out of his stack, blithely and deliberately ignoring him, way too innocent and wide-eyed in a way that would have made Toby pull up sharp. “The original burned down in 1806, so they built a new one here in 1871. I think we should check out both locations. I mean, does it matter what they’re after, Dean? We need to get our hands on it before they do, no matter what it is, right?”

He stared at Sam for a long second, because it was a logic box, and Sam was good at those. He narrowed his eyes and Sam just somehow managed to look even _more_ sincere, because, as he had taught Sammy once before—half the trick to pulling off a lie was to believe in it. He knew Sam was bullshitting him, but he didn’t have Toby’s unforgiving superpower to make Sam ‘fess up, and he couldn’t find a hole in Sam’s argument to get out of it. _I’m dangerous_ didn’t cut it, because he was sitting right here and Sam was sitting right here with him, within arm’s reach, the first domino to fall if they were tipping dominos.

He stood up so abruptly that the map on the table fluttered.

On his way to the door he reached into his pocket and tossed the Impala’s keys at Sam.

“Fine. You’re driving.”


	67. Round and Round

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Ratt.

They were almost all the way to the next old church on the list, somewhere outside Trappe, Pennsylvania, when Dean suddenly bolted straight up in the Impala’s passenger seat, eyes narrowed and his attention on something _out there_.

“ _FUCK._ ”

Dean vanished right out of the car.

If he hadn’t been expecting that to happen at some point, Sam would have hit the brakes hard. As it was, he just took one hand off the steering wheel and reached into his pocket for his phone, toggling it on with a swipe of his thumb. He took his eyes off the road for a moment, to check his position relative to the two dots blipping red on his map. He stepped on the gas once he saw where it was he needed to go.

******

He should have remembered, that when Sam said old churches, that they came with old cemeteries. From a mile off he could feel the vicious hunger rolling off the rising undead, clustering around something, _someone_ —some poor fuck who hadn’t known better not to wander through graveyards at night.

And he should have known it would be her, poking at the hornet’s nest with a stick. He just should have known. She couldn’t have picked a nice tame vampire job, any ol’ run-of-the-mill salt and burn, couldn’t have gone off to track a werewolf under the glowingly full moon— _nooooo_. Like everyone else in his life, she had to be right in the thick of it, hacking her way through the costume party of the undead, Mr. Grubby Disco Outfit and Mr. Top Hat in front of her, and a slickly dressed Capone clone closing on her way too fast from behind. 

_“ARE YOU INSANE???”_

He bellowed the question across the cemetery—a way too lively cemetery, mounds of dirt pushing up like molehills behind the tombstones, the ones that had managed to crawl successfully out of their graves shuffling mindlessly towards the nearest food source— _her._ His chest felt tight and his ears felt red, because there had to be…he stopped to count…seven, no, eight, of the walking dead out here, and she had no backup anywhere in sight. She was certifiable. Certifiable, and giving him the next closest thing to a heart attack, or whatever it was called after a heart stopped beating. 

“ _ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FRIGGIN’ MIND?_ ”

The look she slanted him was cool. Cool in a _what-does-it-matter_ sort of way, and she didn’t stop moving, fighting the good fight, _solo._ Two headstones over the earth burst open, and a pair of scrawny arms levered a fresh stiff out of its grave. His jaw set, and he glanced over at the tree line to make sure there was a soft looking spot to land.

He flicked his hand at her.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t go flying through the air with a pissed-off squawk the way Sam always did.

Didn’t get thrown clear of the clawing arms and shuffling encroachment of the dead so he could do his thing.

_What the ...  
_

He flicked his hand again. 

She ducked down low, a sweeping arc of steel, slicing through Disco’s knees, staying right where she was, in the middle of a pit of shit, trying her best to get her damned ass _killed._ He was striding towards her before he had another thought, because most of his thoughts were now just swear words, unhelpful and colorful swear words in between driving the First Blade through freshly risen mounds of dirt into un-emerged rotting corpses, and if she would just slow the fuck down for a second he could teleport to her, have her back, except she kept moving and hacking at the undead fashion parade, because yeah she kinda had to, and _what the fuck was she thinking?_

A rush of air came in at his 4 o’clock, a whiff of fresh graveyard dirt. He swacked through the incoming bogey, one long angled stroke from hip bone to shoulder, cleaving the zombie in half, not even breaking his stride. He was close enough now to feel the cut of her sword through the air, her eyes coolly focused on some point behind him, and all she had to say for herself was:

_”Duck._ ”

He ducked and turned, but before he could take care of the cadaver coming up behind him, her sword whistled over his head, lopping off the head. He finished the job with a single thrust of the jawbone in his hand. She spun back around, sword cutting through the pinstriped gangster wannabe at her six, stank blood spraying out onto the mossy headstones around them.

“ _ARE YOU NUTS?”_

He bellowed the question at her, because _this, this_ was like choosing to stand your ground, at ground zero. And maybe he had just been too far away before, because now at point blank range, he flicked his hand at her again, waving her towards the trees.

His knuckles slammed into an invisible brick wall, and she didn’t budge an inch.

“ _FUCK_! OW!” He yelped. He curled his fingers into a fist, because _goddamn_ that hurt. And she ignored him. Didn’t even break the pattern of her movement, pivoting a step to his left and whacking the fingers off a disembodied arm that was reaching for his ankle.

“ _Pay. Attention._ Practice your spoon bending later.”

He stared at her. She knew. She knew and she was doing… _something._

“How the hell are you doing that?”

She didn’t answer. He looked her over from head to foot, ignoring the involuntary pitter patter thing that started up somewhere near where his heart used to be, and picked out a shiny new glint of silver at her throat.

“Is that…?” His brow furrowed with the impossibility of it. “ _An anti-TELEKINESIS HEX?”_

“ _Duck._ ”

He ducked again, and she swung over his head again, and he turned and absently ran Walking Dead Extra Number 2 through before he went back to checking out the narrow silver chain glistening around her neck.

Well, _son of a_ … “ _How come we’ve never heard of those_?”

“Rare. Expensive.” She bit the words off between sword swings. “Usually not worth it.”

He skipped over the first two bits as nonsense. He knew hunters who would pay a fortune to have a hex like that.

“What do you mean, usually not worth it?” 

She gave him an impatient look he so did not deserve, because it was a legitimate question, and bumped him roughly aside to take a golf stroke at a grimy-haired head digging its way out of an old grave, her unspoken _bloody hell, working here?_ loud and excessively clear. He let himself be bumped, and followed through by plunging the First Blade through the ground to where the body should have been. The dirt stopped moving.

The beam of Baby’s headlights cut through the night as Sam pulled up along the far edge of the cemetery. It only took Sam a glance to size up the situation, because you know, that was what _backup_ did. But when Sam spilled out of the car he pulled to a complete and surprised stop, looking right at him, Sam’s eyes all squinty and way too thoughtful.

What?

He looked around the graveyard. Huh. Somehow they were the last ones standing, for now, if you didn’t count the bits of feet toeing along looking for their legs. He poked at the nearest pieces, keeping a wary eye on them to make sure they fell over and stayed dead.

Zee flicked and sheathed her sword abruptly, leaving him to chase down the pieces still moving. She headed towards the parking lot to get the gas out of the Durango that he could now see was next to the Impala. Sam mirrored her movements, heading around to Baby’s trunk for their own salt and burn gear.

He glared at her retreating back and focused in on the SUV, visualizing the hatch in his mind’s eye, popping it open with the power of his mind. Sam jumped, startled, when the red can of gas and the big tin of salt went floating by him. 

She shot him the narrowest of looks.

“ _Really_.”

He shrugged and smiled, all teeth and no humor. So. This unmoving thing, it was just— _her._

The tin of salt bobbled a little bit when she plucked it out of midair.

“Stop it.” She said without looking around. “Trying to work.”

Sam looked at them curiously, not following the conversation.

Dean scowled.

“Princess here got herself an anti-telekinesis hex.” 

“ _Really_?” Sam’s eyebrows jumped right into his hair. “How come we’ve never heard of those?”

See. That’s what he said.

She poured salt and gas over a cursing head and two handless arms and lit it all up with a match, the whoosh of fire flaring up loud enough he had to strain to hear her words.

“Because you can’t get one that is universally effective, so it usually isn’t worth the bother.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean, not universally effective? It seems to be working pretty well to me.”

She ignored him, moving off to the next mound of freshly disturbed dirt and doused the crawling limbs around it.

Sam’s forehead squished up into a row of wrinkles, working something out with that lightening calculator Sam called a brain. Sam’s eyes widened, and he was a second slow in following.

“ _It only works_ _AGAINST ME_???”

He howled the words, outraged. He saw Sam thinking, and he braced. He braced for Sam to get it—what Billings had been all about—he braced for Sam’s anger and accusation and betrayal, not expecting the huff that sighed out of Sam like relief.

What the…

He had a second to turn this around. See what Sam saw—the smoking piles of zombie parts scattered across the graveyard instead of zombie jam slathered thick and lumpy across the ground. Him, the First Blade in his hand and eyes still green, marginally in control, and how often that seemed to happen when _she_ was around him—and Sam, Sam thought…

Sam started to laugh.

It hurt, the way Sam laughed. Light, in a way Sam’s laughter hadn’t been since he didn’t know when, a river of hope running through it, a little too hysterical for Sam’s own good. It hurt, to see the mercurial flash of Sam’s dimples, what Sam wanted to believe—that he’d been supremely one-upped, that there was a Colette for every Cain, hearts and rainbows and happily ever after, Sam’s dream of his salvation.

It hurt, like the unmovable ninja thorn now stuck to his side.

He glared at his brother balefully.

“It’s not funny.”

Sam snorted like Bullwinkle breathing before Sam got it together enough to bleat out the supremely unhelpful, “Yes, yes it is, Dean,” before Sam collapsed into whoops again, trying to salt and pour gas in between vigorous inhales and winding up with a lungful of smoke, which totally served him right.

Zee ignored them both, working her way around the tombstones silently like they weren’t even there, focusing on the job. Because _the job_ was what mattered. And _he_ was a job.

He couldn’t move her, couldn’t sense her, and it was the perfect setup.

He didn’t understand why she was wasting time leaving him breathing. Or, you know, standing.

She dropped a lit match on the last pile of twitching limbs. Sensing him glaring at her, she met his scrutiny through the rising smoke _._ She didn’t flinch, and she didn’t back down. That familiar glint was in her eyes, with no give to it at all.

_My job. My terms._

His jaw clenched when she turned away, directed her attention to putting the cap back on the empty gas container, ice cold in a way Sam could never be. He would have been grateful, if it didn’t hurt so damned much.

She tilted her head towards the cars.

“Let’s roll, Jean Grey. They’ll be hitting witch-y old Salem next, and we definitely want to get ahead of that.”


	68. Laugh, I Nearly Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Rolling Stone.

He took the keys from Sam because he needed to drive. Needed to feel the curve of the road beneath his hands, to have something to focus on besides the turmoil in his head.

“How’d you find her?”

“What?”

“How’d you find her, Sam?”

“Uh, Dean. I’m pretty sure you’re the one who hijacked her hunt.”

Oh, no, Sam wasn’t getting out of it that easily.

“Okay. Then how’d _you_ find _us_? I didn’t tell you were I was going.”

“It was the next church on the list.” Sam offered, lamely.

Dean took his eyes off the road, because 1) he had taught Sam to lie better than that and 2) he had to work to tamp his roar down to a growl.

“I could have teleported _anywhere_ , Sam. So I’m asking again, how’d you find us?”

“I don’t know, Dean. I can track your phone, remember? I figured out where _you_ went. That’s how _I_ knew to go to the church. Maybe she’s just working the same job we were. Stopping the zombies from eating everyone _is_ kind of the biggest thing out there right now. Old churchyards are an obvious thing. And you’ve got to admit, picking them off fresh out of their graves before they get any powers isn’t a bad idea at all.”

He bit down on the hot retort burning at the tip of his tongue. It was one hell of a coincidence, and coincidences _didn’t_ happen. Even accounting for the freaky synchronized thinking thing Zee and Sam occasionally did, there was something else, but Sam purposefully forced the conversation forward.

“That hex must have come from the Exeter-Asquith Vault.” Sam mused out loud. “I wonder if there’s another one like it in the bunker.”

Sam was thinking a little too hard about it, because Sam wanted one. It had been the first question out of Sam’s mouth. As if he needed _that_ complication. He’d been grateful when Zee had given Sam a veiled look, sharp enough with autocratic authority to put the kibosh on Sam’s eagerness, the fingers on her right hand curling into her palm.

“It’s rare, and this one’s _tuned to me._ ”

His nails dug into his palm around the steering wheel. He glanced at the Durango in the rearview mirror. That hex was a gauntlet thrown right in his face. It gave her the edge over Sam; and when push came to shove, she would be closer and faster. The job would be hers. So yes, he’d get what he wanted—Sam safely out of the picture—but if he lost control again, if he gave in to the Mark, she’d made damned sure he wasn’t going to be able to get rid of her, boot her to safety, which meant he had to stay on his A-game.

Checkmate. 

“Is she still invisible to you?”

He snorted. That was all the answer Sam needed, and it was _frickin’_ incredible that the downside of that particular fact hadn’t dawned on Sam yet. He was the sitting duck he needed to be, and somehow all Sam saw was the stuff of Disney movies and bad cable TV—he should have made Sam sit through more wildlife documentaries—and he didn’t know how Sam did it, _believe_ , considering all they’d been through and seen, but then that was Sam.

Sam glanced at the side mirror, checking the Durango’s position behind them for himself. Keeping an eye on it, like he’d been doing surreptitiously since Trappe. If Sam hadn’t drawn a bead on her location from the start, way back from before they’d even left the bunker, he’d eat Bobby’s grungy old hat. And what Sam didn’t realize, well, it wouldn’t hurt him. It was easier to let Sam dream.

All he could hope for was that Sam would forgive them in the end.


	69. Right Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Ashes Remain.

She was waiting for them the next morning, sitting on the hood of the Durango as if it were just any other day, and as if this was a thing they did. Beside him Sam perked up, and he had to resist the urge to elbow Sam in the ribs for being so damned _obvious._

“I’m, um…” and Sam took the room key right out of his hand. “…I’ll go get us checked out.”

With that Sam was gone, as fast as Sam’s ginormous feet would take him.

He hefted the duffel in his hand, feeling its weight.

“So. What now?”

She slid off the Durango to face him. Her gaze was direct, and amazingly clear.

“We keep working.”

He opened his mouth to protest. His world grew more twilight gray each day with demon sight, and taking chances—putting stuff off—was just foolish.

“No.” She cut him off, her voice as hard as steel. “Not yet. You’re the only weapon we have.”

He stopped at the no-nonsense, no-sentiment in her tone, and snorted ungraciously. Of course. That was why. He was _useful_. And that, well. At least that made sense. 

“Ramiel.” He said, because that was the end game.

“Getting Heaven’s Gates open again.” She answered. “We find the Book, and we get those souls back where they belong.”

He stared at her, because she was starting to sound like Sam. She met his gaze evenly, reassuringly still no more emotional than T2 on a good day. She took one step forward, closer to him, and laid her hand on his sleeve, right over where the Mark lay beneath.

“So you’re going to keep your batshit together, for Toby’s sake.”

He caught his breath sharply, because he got where she was coming from, and she wasn’t asking. She’d gone done and assumed he could, no muss, no fuss and no doubt at all, that he’d do it.

“I…”

“Do you _want_ him to grow up in a world overrun by zombies?”

He opened his mouth and shut it, because she’d cut him off at the knees. Again. Maybe it was a matter of choosing lesser evils and taking her chances, but he didn’t know how it was she’d bet on him, over _angels_. 

She took another step forward, moving her hand from his sleeve to frame his jaw, and looked into his eyes, like she could _see_. The things he was beneath his skin, and he didn’t try to hide. He held still, so very, very still, against the imprint of warmth against his cheek, wanting to turn his head into it. He didn’t, because he was holding her gaze, and he couldn’t break it. He would never again break it.

The corners of her lips curved up, fleeting and bittersweet. He could have imagined it, the brush of her thumb against his lips, before she dropped her hand and stepped back. He barely stopped himself from leaning forward, chasing it. He had to sit back on his heels to stop himself, and school his features hard into something unmoved and unmoving. He might be the lesser evil, maybe, and maybe he would agree to this scheme of hers, but he wanted something first.

“ _Don’t_ take chances.”

She didn’t flinch when he tried to stare her down. He didn’t know her tell, if she had one. She didn’t back down an inch, and didn’t fidge or fudge the way Sam would have, her answer as cool and calm as a promise.

“I won’t.”

******

Sam had beamed at the two of them when he finally ambled back from the front office, the mercurial flash of one of Sam’s too-pleased smiles dashing across Sam’s face, but all Sam had said to Zee was, “Where we headed?” like the _we_ was assumed. And he should have seen it coming, when Sam later in the car said, “You know, Dean, I can get my own room.”

He gave Sam the stink-eye. “It’s not like that.”

If anything that made Sam look at him twice, eyes too speculative and way too sharp, like he might be growing a second head off his shoulder.

“Oh.” Sam said, like that single word was everything.

He gave Sam another side-eye, catching the curl of Sam’s lips up on one of Sam’s tiny, smug, smiles.

“Sam. Don’t...”

“No.”

“And no…”

“None.”

He gave Sam one last forbidding look for good measure, not that it did him any good. Sam was still smiling to himself, radiating smugness.

“She’s just going to ride with us for a while.” He said this while keeping an eye on the Durango in the rearview mirror.

“Uh-huh.”

“We’re all chasing the same thing.”

“We are.”

“There’s nothing there.” He insisted.

“Heard you the first six times, Dean.” Sam answered placidly, his attention on his phone. “Take a right here. We need to get on the expressway.”


	70. Bring Me to Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Evanescence.

Despite all his promises to the contrary, Sam kept leaving them “alone”. The third time this happened, Dean looked at the remaining three quarters of his burger, leaned back, sighed, and ordered himself another beer.

He felt more than he saw her inquiring glance. He was so done with their meals turning into a competition speed-eating event. He picked at the bun of his burger morosely, and scowled at it.

“He keeps giving me the disappointed puppy eyes.”

Whenever he showed back up at the room too ‘early’, whenever he tried to bolt from their evening meal with Sam. Because there was _absolutely nothing there, god dammit, Sam._

She gave him an inscrutable look, and speared a tomato with her fork. If she’d noticed—it’d be hard not to—Sam’s blindingly blatant attempts to give them ‘alone time’, she’d said nothing. She didn’t even try to avoid him, like a kinder person might have done. She stayed right where she was and ate her tomato, then pushed a leaf of lettuce over into a pool of dressing, coating it with oil, letting the excess drip away before she raised it to her lips.

It took him a minute to realize he was staring.

_Dammit, Sam._

*

“You talk to the kid at all?”

He’d settled back against the banquette with his second beer, watching the dusk fall outside.

She squished some ketchup onto her plate before replying.

“Once.”

He raised both eyebrows in a question, because Dad only ever broke radio silence in case of imminent death or immediate danger.

“He’s fine.” There was an edge to that _fine_ , from which he took that Toby was still campaigning to be back on the road. She picked up a French fry and swirled it in the ketchup slowly. “He asked about you.”

He paused, because _that_ was a can of worms.

“And what’d you tell him?”

She flicked him a quick look, one of her searching ones, before returning her attention to mutilating her fry.

“I said you were… about the same.”

He huffed into his beer. He wouldn’t have called his continuing devolution into demon-ness and damnation ‘about the same’, but it probably was, from a hunter’s perspective. 

She skewed him another quick glance, like she knew what he was thinking. But she had that carefully neutral thing going again, neither condemnation nor forgiveness, and she looked at the fry in her hand for another minute.

“He wanted to tell you,” and this time, her glance was sharper, “since we wouldn’t teach him, that he’s learned to throw a Perfect Point well enough to hit the target all the time now.”

Her glance flicked pointedly downward as if she could see through the table. He kept his eyes carefully on the crumbs left on his plate. 

“Oh yeah? Good for him.”

He was absolutely not missing one of the throwing pair he kept strapped inside his boot. He was not.

*

He hammered the dent out of the Durango’s front fender because it was driving him completely nuts.

*

“I’m okay with it, so you know.” He said out of absolutely nowhere, in between bites of takeout taco.

Her cup of coffee paused in midair for a second, but she didn’t ask what he was talking about.

*

He hadn’t really meant to follow her, that first time, but when she disappeared some mornings with nothing but a text , ‘back by 7’, he was just naturally, curious. Where she went, what she did, if she was doing anything they should know about.

It wasn’t easy, following her, because, again, _Rufus._ He was pretty sure he’d been made, by the time he caught up to her. So he didn’t bother hiding when he scoped out the small clearing in the sparse woods she had come to, watching her set the sling she kept her swords in down on the ground.

_“I was…” His hands were in his pockets, and what was he exactly? He was avoiding Sam. He’d stalked her halfway across town, like a creepy assed creep, because he hadn’t wanted to wait around with Sam and Sam glancing at him every five minutes, as if Sam thought he should be somewhere else, with someone else, and he just subconsciously obeyed Sam, hadn’t he, dammit. He swore silently in his head, but his feet didn’t move, because he didn’t want to go back to the motel room with its four walls and the stew of Sam’s silent disappointment …he waved a pocket at her, awkwardly. “You know what? I’m just gonna … head back.”_

_One of her eyebrows went up, like she saw right through him and his Sam evasion._

_“If you want.”_

He’d blinked in surprise. It wasn’t an invitation, exactly, but she wasn’t giving him the boot. She was ignoring him, taking her long sword out of the sling, and setting up in the clearing as if he weren’t even there. She drew, and there were no straw men here, but maybe her imaginary ones were enough. He watched her cut away at an army of ghosts, swinging at nothing, each stroke precise and controlled and honed to a fine edge that should have scared him. Instead, he found himself relaxing, easing into the way she moved, tuning into it like it was a song, something fast with a steady, thrumming beat.

_“Off again?” Sam had said, watching him shrug into his jacket the next day._

_“I’m just getting coffee.”_

_“MmmHmm. Looong time for coffee.”_

_“It’s not a thing.”_

_Sam’s eyebrows did a smug jiggle._

_“It’s not a thing. I’m just…look, you want breakfast with that or not?”_

They were in a park on the east side of town today, enough trees around the riverbank to shield them from curious eyes, a well-worn wooden bench and table set to one side. He put the extra double espresso he’d gotten down on the table and sat on the bench, before taking a careful sip from his own cup, his eyes on the gleaming line of her sword’s upward swing. 

_“Drills.” He’d told Sam. “She does drills.”_

_“Kata.” Sam snooted, in his_ I-read-books _way. “Or ‘forms’. They’re traditional practice patterns in martial arts, a sequence of steps done over and over again, sometimes thousands of times, so that the movement becomes automatic in battle. It’s also an exercise in precision and focus. Helps clear the mind.” Sam looked almost contemplative. “I hear it’s very zen.”_

_“So, basically, drills.” He’d said, and Sam made a wry face. Because, yeah, Sam remembered. It was a daily thing, getting rousted out of bed in the pre-dawn hours—load and fire, load and fire, until they could both do it blindfolded in under five seconds. Dad had timed them._

_“Yeah. Drills.” Sam conceded._

She turned on her right heel, one sweeping arc that would cleave a man in half, shoulder to hip. There would be a tiny, one-second pause here, before her next turn, that hadn’t been there the first time he’d seen this pattern. That was enough time for him to teleport in behind her if he needed to, his back to her back, in case of extra bogeys at her six.

_“You’re like frigging Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” Sam had said, when they’d pulled that maneuver at the last cemetery. He’d given Sam the stink eye, because seriously, Brad and Angelina? That’s what Sam was going for?_

With a flick and slither she sheathed her sword. He waited. Some days when the nightmares were bad she’d go another round, but today wasn’t one of those days. He watched her wind down her routine, deep breaths in and out, hands on the sword at her side, an utter stillness to the silence.

She glanced briefly at him and the coffee he had set on the table before unfastening the sword from her side. She crossed the few steps between them without speaking, and set the katana back in her carrying case with careful hands. He watched the way her hands slid over the dark leather wrapping on the scabbard, familiar and lingering, and he wondered, not for the first time, what the story was there. She zipped the case firmly shut, and picked up the coffee he’d left sitting next to it. She took a slow sip before she looked over to him.

“Where we headed?”

“Sam said New Mexico. Some church there built by Jesuits. And not just that, Sam said the church might be sitting on top of an old Indian kiva. Whatever the Fallen are looking for, they’re definitely looking for holy ground, and sacred place on top of sacred place sounds like pretty holy ground to me.”

She cocked her head sideways and thought for a second. “This the mission in Santa Fe?”

Somehow he wasn’t surprised she knew that off the top of her head. She lived and breathed the job, like the job was all there was. And maybe he wasn’t surprised she let him hang out with her, because it was easier to keep an eye on him that way, since the job _was_ all there was, even if Sam wanted to pretend otherwise.

_“You know, it’s going to be two days driving to get there, no matter how we cut it up.” Sam had said, faking an overly bland look. “We’ll be passing through Kansas. I mean, we’ll be close enough to the bunker, if you want to…you know.”_

_He’d given Sam the stink eye, because he didn’t want to ‘you know’._

_“What, bring her home? Show her the antique junk?”_

_Sam hefted his eyebrows high in a hey-you-said-it-I-didn’t sort of way._

_He’d glared at Sam, because one, NO. And two, they were_ working. _No matter what Sam thought, they were just working._

“It’s going to be a two day drive from here.” He found himself saying. “You know, we’ve got a safe place we could…”

“ _No._ ”

He flinched and took a step back. “Well, I’ll just…”

“No.” She repeated more evenly. “Your…” she skewed him a look that was far too sharp, “…secret bunker? Wherever it is, don’t tell _me_.”

He stared at her, because … “ _Why not?_ ”

Her expression closed up. He didn’t think that was actually possible, but it turned out she had a more-guarded expression than her standard guarded expression, where she wasn’t going to tell him shit.

“Don’t tell _me_.” She repeated. “ _I_ can’t know.”

His gaze narrowed on her face, on her emphasis. He’d gotten used to the way she played, none of her cards showing, except one thing. His eyes drifted to Toby’s amulet, resting against her collarbone.

_He’s safer away from me._

She followed his line of sight. She put fingertips protectively over the amulet, the gesture as instinctive as it was telling.

He took one step forward. He had told Sam once that this was what it meant to live the life, to do the job. Don’t get close to people, and don’t make friends. Don’t stand close enough to touch, and don’t reach out.

Her hand felt fragile in his, but he knew better. With a careful thumb he traced over the barely visible lines that ran across her palm. Lines that had been there since she was knee high to Rufus, standing in front of that grand old pile she’d inherited. A grand old pile that had been contested—and was still coveted—by more old family than one.

Well. _That_ stopped now.

It was a gray world, edging towards black. He could find them and take them, the Wodehouses, the Ambelyns, whoever or whatever had done this, devil or demon or soul. He could find them and take them, all their poltergeists and their richly haunted mansions, and see how they liked it down below. His vision grayed out and his muscles bunched in preparation, scanning and tracking, searching for his prey.

“No _._ ”

The sharp bite of her fingers into his forearm brought him up short. He looked down into whiskey eyes that reflected the sun, her expression stern.

He tried to shrug her off, but her grip bit, all those long hours of wielding a sword bruising on his arm, keeping him in place when she shouldn’t have been able to hold him at all.

“No.” She repeated. “It’s not worth it.”

He didn’t understand what that meant. It was the job. It was _his_ job.

“No.” She said firmly, her fingertips feather light against his jaw. “They’re not worth you.”

He stared at her blankly. He had never been but a blade of his father’s forging, made to do a job that needed doing. So he didn’t know what it was, to be touched, as if he were breakable limbs and fragile skin, as if he might be bones and flesh. He didn’t know how to do this— _stay_ , and not throw himself carelessly into battle. He didn’t know how to be this— _worth,_ when he felt it would be a lie.

He drew a rough breath. She let go and he stepped back, the ground shifting beneath his feet, his boots dragging over wet leaves and damp grass, sinking slightly into ground made soft by last night’s rain. Slowly he blinked, hues of brown and green and gold edging out his vision of gray, breathing in the smell of sunshine and fresh mown grass, the sky easing to blue with the dawn. He tucked his hands into his pockets, feeling Baby’s keys solid against his fingers. If he turned his head he could almost see the Impala, parked next to the Durango, gleaming in the new day’s light.

Without a word she picked up the coffee cup she had set down as if nothing at all had happened. Her face was completely neutral again when she glanced at him.

“So.” She said. “Santa Fe.”

He had to hand it to her, the lack of inflection in her voice. He had to clear his throat.

“Yeah. Santa Fe.” 

“ _So._ ”

_He shot a glance to his left, where Sam was trying not to smile, lips pulling in a definite upward curve, twitching with glee._

“ _What?_ ”

_“You seem…I don’t know…more relaxed?”_

_“Shut up.”_

_Sam smiled. A genuine, dimples and all, Sam smile. His breath stuck, because it’d been a long time since he’d seen Sam smile like that, and he hadn’t really realized how_ long _it had been. He’d gotten Sam peanut butter and bread and bananas, and Zee had raised a pointed eyebrow at the bananas, but hey, what could you do?_

_“I mean, I think it’s good, Dean. Really good. She already knows everything, and that’s…rare.”_

_He slanted another look sideways when Sam trailed off there, because he knew what Sam was thinking. The lie Sam lived, had been made to live; the things Sam had never told Jessica, that maybe would have saved her life. The things that Sam hadn’t even thought to tell Amelia, because they were shadows, and she had been his light. Not for the first time he wondered how Sam did it, go all head over heels when a part of himself was still hidden away, stashed under the mattress like the knife he knew Sam would’ve kept there, no matter how normal Sam was pretending to be._

_“Mmm.” He said as non-committally as possible._

_“I’m happy for you, Dean.” Sam smiled again, brimming with it, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders too. Dean cringed internally, because it would go to shit in so many ways he couldn’t even count them._

_“Sam.”_

_“What?”_

_“I want you to promise me something.”_

_Sam stopped grinning and looked at him, caught by his tone. Sam’s eyes narrowed, but all Sam said was, “Yeah, Dean. Sure. What?”_

_“I want you to promise you’ll always look out for her. There’s a whole lot of shit coming our way, and I…I need you to promise me that.”_

_The furrow that had been developing between Sam’s brows eased. “Of course, Dean. You know I will.”_

_Dean grimaced. He knew what he was asking of Sam, and maybe Sam would hate him for it down the line, but he had to do it. It was the price he paid for keeping Sam out of it._

_He forced a smile to his lips._

_“Yeah. I know you will. I just needed to hear it.”_

_Sam nodded. “Well, you got it.”_

_He glanced in the rearview mirror at the same time Sam did, both of them keeping an eye on the Durango behind them. He turned his gaze back forward, eyes fixed on the road in front of him, and the newly planted fields of corn stretching out to either side._

“We should.” She gestured, at the parking lot, at the Durango.

He straightened. “Yeah.”

She picked up her sling one handed and slung it over her head and one shoulder in one fluid motion, years and years of practice in it, before she looked up at him. By this time tomorrow they’d be on the road, driving hell for leather for New Mexico, the asphalt hot beneath Baby’s wheels.

He didn’t get it. They barely touched; they didn’t _do_ anything. He had no idea what it was Sam saw that gave Sam his crazy ideas.

She was already headed off to the cars, on to the next order of business. And that’s what this was, just business. When he didn’t follow she stopped and turned, and crooked one eyebrow up, a silent inquiry as clear as words.

“Yeah.” He said. “Yeah. I’m coming.”


	71. The Long Road Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Angus Lyon.

The weather turned hot and muggy on their way south. Dean had the windows rolled down, the air thick with the taste of looming thunderstorms all the way through Missouri. Sam woke up when Dean turned off the freeway in Topeka, heading unexpectedly north before turning west again. Sam looked around at the unrelenting flatness of the landscape, where the curves in the road and the sparse farmhouses were vaguely familiar, and he sighed. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

It was late afternoon when they pulled into Cawker City. He knew Dean had timed it so they’d get there when there was still daylight, to make sure the tiny souvenir shop across the street would still be open.

“Come on.” Dean was saying to Zee. “We’ll just get a postcard. He’ll get it.”

When Dean stole a glance in his direction, Sam just ducked his head and studied his shoe intently, not meeting Dean’s eyes.

He’d almost forgotten.

He’d held the first postcard between a thumb and forefinger for a long time when it turned up, a month after he got his post office box at Stanford. It was just a 3’ x 5’ picture of a giant ball of twine (the one in Darwin) with a crooked Liberty Bell stamp. The card was creased on one corner. There was no message, and there was no return address.

The tangled thing that had been sitting heavy on his chest for months whooshed out of his lungs in a rush.

He hadn’t been sure, when he left, how he’d left.

He hadn’t known that he had doubted, until that moment.

A month later it was a giant pink elephant on the front with creepy-ass glowing eyes, postmarked: Inverness, Florida. Three months went by. Then in between his bills and some flyers there was a random picture of an unremarkable town, stamped Riverside, Iowa. He had smiled. Then came the World’s Largest Jackalope from Douglas, Wyoming, and of course, he should have expected the Rhinelapus that followed. He’d pinned those cards on the fridge, and Jess had laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

He never asked, and Dean never said, but he had understood just fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cawker City, Kansas - Home of the World's Largest Ball of Twine! There are multiple claims to this title. ;-)  
> *Riverside, Iowa - Future birthplace of James T. Kirk.


	72. The One Who Laughs Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Downplay.

He wasn’t sure how long they had been here, in this beaten up, overdressed meat suit, one cheek pressed into dry dirt, the bruising weight of sanctified walls crushing him into sacred ground. He reached out a hand, his fingernails torn and bloodied, the sleeve of his shabby trench coat dirty and frayed, and he clawed his way deeper, yearning for fire.

She wasn’t sure how long they had been here, shockingly bruised and battered, chained by fire and anger to the earth. She wasn’t sure how long these hallowed walls could protect them, from the wrath within and the wrath that was coming. She lifted blunt fingertips out of the ground, the sleeve of his trench coat dirt streaked and frayed. She tried to find them air in the flames; her wings wrapped tenderly around her charge, her feathers charred all to smoke, still straining for the sky.

He was still screaming.

Screaming and screaming and being torn apart. There were fragments of him in the earth and in the sky and he couldn’t keep himself whole. There were flashes of light and flames alternating, too bright where he could feel his flesh scalding, broiling away as steam and smoke. Theo’s grace bubbled, precarious, like boiling lava on his parched lips. He was being ripped to pieces, the particles of his existence flayed and shredded, and he couldn’t hold on.

He had to hold on.

“ _Dean._ ” He croaked. “ _Dean.”_


	73. Black Hole Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Soundgarden.

There was _something_ here.

Dean inched closer to Zee, trying to block out the clamor of the crowd milling around in the plaza. They were in the middle of downtown Santa Fe, in the middle of freakin’ tourist central, and he couldn’t _think_. Voices lashed out at him, _thought_ carrying with sound, loud even when he tried to tune it out.

“Dean.” Sam murmured quietly. “We can come back later. When there’s fewer people.”

Dean squeezed his hard eyes shut, trying to concentrate. 

“No. Something’s _here._ I can feel it.”

It was murky, whatever it was, shielded by the thick air that came with holy ground. Trying to dig beneath it was like trying to dig through sand. He could feel Zee shift against him, stepping close, close enough to keep him from doing harm and he let the world go _gray, gray with darkness and voices overlapping and_

His eyes snapped open.

“ _Cas?_ ”


	74. Wrong Side of Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Five Finger Death Punch.

Cas’ eyes were _white_. White and glowing.

Cas was smoke.

White smoke.

He seized Cas by the throat, the First Blade in his hand, blinded by the brilliance that was a full angel’s wings, blazing out as smoke and grace.

They were burning.

He was burning.

The flesh on his hands charred, flaking away to ash. Dean gripped on, because he could still see _Cas_ , damned idiotic stubborn Cas, flickering as a thin strand of blue twisting through the plume of white. He held on, despite the searing palm the thing that rode Cas set against his forehead, pouring liquid metal grace down his throat, hollowing out his eyes.

Rage roiled up his arm, lava hot beneath the Mark. Hell, and everything pent up within, surged into the old jawbone in his hand. His vision went, the world slamming to darkness, everything in front of him suddenly crystal clear. He could _see_ it now, _there_ , twisted through feathers and blood and bone, warped by the handprint of Heaven, _one of his_ , with its forked tail and slithering scales, breathing fear and madness into the tortured grace.

Someone was yelling something, a tinny noise in the background, and he shut it out. He had things to do. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a flicker of silver on his right, a promise, watching over him. He gripped the Blade tighter, and let the Mark flare free.

_Let it burn._

The white smoke wrapped hot hands around his head, bright thumbs digging into his eyes, forcing him down to his knees.

With a snarl he reached out, into the scalding smoke as insubstantial as mist. He reached deep into Cas’ chest, through skin and flesh and lungs. Grace that was smoke clouded his vision, blinding him with pain and it was hard to _see_. He dug in, chasing his prey, because it was _one of his_ , and he would _make it_ _burn._ He caught it by a forked tail and yanked it free, carelessly flinging the remains of angel and meatsuit across the room, not paying any attention to the sickening crunch as it hit the far wall.

_Do Your Job._

The smoke twisted fearfully in his hand, writhing to get away. The First Blade burst into flame. He raised the original instrument of death higher.

_Do this. For this was what he was meant to do._

_He would make it all burn._

STOP HIM! DON’T LET HIM USE THE FIRST BLADE!

_Sister. Angel. He couldn’t listen to her._

_It had to BURN._

A flash of silver slipped by. He spun around, clutching the writhing smoke to him protectively, because it was _his, his prey, his kill_ and something swung at him, an arc of brightness slicing just above his hand, inches short of his chest, cutting through the smoke and releasing a stench of sulfur, lighting the demon in his hand up bright orange before it crumbled to ash.

_IT stole his kill_.

He snarled and whirled on it, but the blur moved too fast for him to follow. The silver blade flashed again, moving in a pattern, eerily familiar, so familiar, catching at his memory, like something he should know. He gripped the First Blade, clamping down on the impulse to swing, trying to remember. The silver breezed past him, a whiff of cool morning air, and something was _important_. What was it that was important?

_Stay._

He locked his arm into stillness, shaking with the effort of it.

“ _DEAN!_ ”

An iron hard grip bit into his shoulders, from somewhere behind him. The grip on his shoulders held on stubbornly, foolishly shaking him, and there was no one that foolish but _Sam_ , Sam was shaking him, and he sagged as Sam’s arm came around him, turning him, turning him away from one too near miss…

He jerked violently away from Sam’s guiding hands and pushed on Sam’s shoulder so he could see what Sam was trying to keep him from seeing. So he could see _Cas_ lying on the ground, ghostly pale and way too still, _his fault his fault his fault_ , just in time to see Cas’ lips barely forming the word,

“Yes.”

******

Sam grabbed Dean and shielded him, because he could see what was coming. The white glow of grace blowing out from Cas, _full on possessed-by-angel_ , and he was rolling to his feet with his angel blade out even though he had heard Cas say yes with his own ears. Cas’ eyes glowed, angel bright.

“Cas?” He asked carefully.

“That’s Hannah.” Dean snapped from behind him. “I can _see_ you, sister. _GET OUT._ ”

Cas, or Hannah—whoever it was, sat up carefully, and brushed the dirt off his knees. Grace bright eyes looked at them.

Dean stepped around him, face grim. The First Blade was in Dean’s hand.

Cas-Hannah took one step back. “Dean Winchester. Stop.”

“ _Then. Get. Out. Of. Him.”_

The light in Castiel’s eyes dimmed, and Cas crumpled. The Blade disappeared into thin air as Dean stepped forward, a muscle ticking in Dean’s jaw as Dean caught Cas before Cas hit the ground. Sam moved when Dean moved, catching Cas between them and propping Cas up against the wall.

Cas latched onto Dean’s forearm weakly.

“Hannah’s right, Dean. You’ve got to stop. The First Blade’s a trap.”

Even in the dimness of the kiva he could see Dean tense at the mention of the First Blade. Guilt was written all over Dean’s face as Dean checked Cas over. Cas pressed a hand cautiously to his own chest, right over the spot where Dean had sunk his hand in and yanked the demon out of Cas—or the white smoke that Castiel had been, and Dean flinched.

“Cas.”

“I’m okay, Dean. I’ll be fine. Hannah and I are fine. That’s not what we have to worry about.” Cas shook Dean off. “You must stop using the First Blade. You’re giving Ramiel what he wants.”

_What?_ Sam looked from Cas to Dean, but Dean frowned, confusion clear on Dean’s face.

“Hold up. Didn’t you tell me that the more I use the Blade, the stronger that makes the Mark, and the harder I am to kill? Why the hell would Ramiel want to make me harder to kill? He’s gotta know I’m coming for him next.”

“Ramiel doesn’t want you dead, Dean. He wants you to live. Forever.”

He hadn’t seen Zee come up, but she was there by Dean’s other side. She shifted her angel blade, a glint of silver, bright in the gray gloom. There was still ash on her sleeve from where she’d sliced through the demon that’d been in Dean’s hand. She stared intently at Cas.

“Why?”

Cas sighed.

“Ramiel wants to be the New Light of Heaven.” Cas made a face. “The new God.”

Sam snorted. “It’s going to be hard to be the New Light of Heaven when you’re _Fallen_.”

Dean shot him a look that was a question.

“Ramiel’s grace, it’s like Arkas’, isn’t it? Cracked open and tainted when they fell, that first time they bailed on Heaven. They try to hide it, but that means those dark threads are in Ramiel’s grace too, aren’t they? It’s what makes the _Fallen_ gray. So there’s no way Ramiel can be the New Light of anything.”

Cas nodded. “Ramiel can’t change himself, but he’s found a ’workaround’. He’ll just make everything else dimmer. With the Book powering him, he can rip souls out of Heaven, out of the Veil, anything brighter than him, and make them into zombies. Driven mad, the zombies are forced to eat, and he’ll feed them demons and monsters and humans, everything bleeding together until everyone is the same murky shade of gray. The Fallen and any angel willing to join them will partner with demons to possess humans, becoming the white smoke, and that’s how they’ll stay more powerful than the zombies. Ramiel alone will remain above the fray, and this way, in the end, Ramiel will be the brightest of them all.”

Sam sucked in a breath. They’d thought as much, but it was different, hearing it confirmed.

“But that’s not enough. It’s not enough to be slightly brighter than all other shades of gray. For Ramiel to truly shine, he needs an opposite. A Lucifer to his God. He needs Dean. He needed to make sure Dean would keep using the First Blade.” Cas stared at him solemnly. “Do you see, Sam?”

_…he was back in that church in Geary, Arkas leaning over to pick up his angel blade with a smile. “You’ll see, Sam. You’ll see.”_

_“It was a test.”_ Sam whispered. 

Dean frowned at him. “What?”

“Back at that church in Geary. Arkas said it was a test.” Sam repeated. “He wanted to know who you’d save. Me or Cas. You saved us both.” He stopped, because he couldn’t _breathe_. He hadn’t realized… ” All those things we kept running into—the ghost, the ghouls, the rugaru, the goblin, the shifter, the zombies in St Louis. That wasn’t bad luck. Those things were sent. Ramiel wanted to make sure you’d use the First Blade, but none of those things ever went after _you_.”

Dean shrugged, because that would be obviously stupid. And all those monsters that had dogged their steps had never made sense, because nothing sane chased after Dean head on.

“Because if you’d been on your own, Dean, you’re stronger than the Mark. You would have stopped killing. You wanted to. Ramiel couldn’t have that, so he set a trap. He went after your weaknesses. _Us._ Toby, Cas. _Me_. _We’re_ the monster magnets.” Sam drew a ragged breath. ”Because Ramiel _knew_ —he _knew_ threatening _us_ would make using the First Blade a no brainer for you. It was guaranteed to work.”

Dean, cutting and cutting, because they needed the information to get the job done. Each cut a blood drop of darkness on his soul, trying to do the right thing.

Darkness and blood, the Mark and the Blade craved it. 

_I’m poison, Sam._

Dean walking away from Lisa and Ben outside that hospital in Battle Creek.

Dean, letting go, when Dean had never let go before.

“ _Despair_.” He whispered. “The opposite of hope is despair.”

The hard lines on Dean’s face—he didn’t know when those had appeared. Looking into his brother’s eyes now, the weariness in the green, he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before.

He reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm. “This isn’t _you_ , Dean. You’re not a killer.” 

Dean smiled, humorless, Dean’s gaze flicking down to the sore spot beneath his ribs.

“I don’t know, Sam. I think St. Louis would disagree with you there.”

All of a sudden he’d had enough. He had his hands fisted in the front of Dean’s shirt, yanking Dean forward. Red-hot rage swelled up in his chest and made his words vehement and low.

“You’re not a killer, Dean. You _stopped._ _You_ wanted to stop. You would’ve rather died than let the Mark use you.” Sam breathed a hard breath. He’d accused Dean of a lot of things, hit him where it hurt. But this…loyalty and betrayal, Amy and Benny and Kevin, the lengths Dean went to in order to protect him, and the one thing, the _one thing_ , he had never been able to get through Dean’s thick skull.

“Sam.”

“No.” He wasn’t having it. “You don’t get to play hero anymore, Dean. That’s what got us here in the first place. So you’re going to put that Blade down, and you’re going to stop, and we’re going to figure this out. _Together_.” He took a shuddering breath, pinning Dean down with a hard stare, the anger vibrating in him making his mouth pinched and his eyes tight. ”Because the opposite of hope is despair, Dean. Eternal despair. And I’ll be damned if I’m letting that happen to you.”


	75. Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by _NEEDTOBREATHE_.

Hannah had merely pointed – in a vague, swirly, multi-dimensional sort of way – “That way” towards where they should go, to find Cas’ misfit gang of Scoobies.

“She means west. Maybe—Arizona?” Cas supplied helpfully, because, yes, Arizona was a fairly new concept for Cas. Hell, the Grand Canyon was a fairly new concept for Cas, never mind the bits and bobs that littered the landscape, little things, like _roads_ and _towns_. Dean got that, he did, but he still needed some kind of landmark, something kind of actual direction that he could _drive._

Which turned out to be route 66. –ish. Cas and Sam went back and forth on it for a while—Cas: “Flat mountains?”, Sam: “Mesas?”, Cas: “Stoned trees.”, Sam: “Petrified Forest?”. Cas: “Town of Donkeys.” Sam: “Oatman?”

How Sam knew this stuff was beyond him.

******

The town of Oatman really was full of donkeys. Dean sidestepped one, and it brayed at him loudly, as if it could sense the First Blade somewhere on him. He held up both hands, empty, just because, as Sam came up warily beside him.

“I don’t think it likes you.”

“It’s an ass.”

Sam winced. “You think it knows?”

“What? That I’m carrying around its great-great-great-great-grandpappy’s jawbone?” He eyed the angry burro. “Maybe.”

He could see Sam wanted to talk about it, the cloud hanging over his head. _Despair_ , whatever the hell that meant, the madness pounding in the back of his mind, the endless drumbeat that was the voice of the Mark, whispering and whispering.

_Do this. Do this do this do this and it will all be okay._

Dean shoved his hands roughly into his pockets, curling his fingers into fists, glancing down the street at Cas. _Cas and Hannah_ , the things he had almost done, and he swallowed hard. He still didn’t like it, that Cas was more or less _possessed_ , but fact was, if Hannah hadn’t been there to fix Cas up--

“Dean.” Sam interrupted. “Cas is fine. He said yes, all on his own, and Hannah’s got him all patched up. You had no choice. You had to nix the white smoke somehow, or it would have killed us all.”

Sam’s voice rolled over him, excuses piling upon excuses. It was always something, wasn’t it, some kind of life or death right now, having to choose between the rock and the hard place. He always _tried_ to do the right thing, and the scary thing of it was, it really didn’t feel so different now. The lines blurred a little bit here and a little bit there, and then collateral damage was just the name of the game, and he just didn’t _know_ anymore.

Sam was studying him, a careful and weirdly gentle expression on Sam’s face when Sam said, “You know you can’t always protect everyone, right?” Then Sam tilted his head sideways, and studied him some more. It made him jumpy when Sam did that, because it usually meant Sam was about say something _meaningful_ , which was always a conversation he wanted to avoid. And sure enough, Sam said: “You realize you won’t always be able to protect _me_ , right?”

He stared at Sam, all six foot four of Sam. His brain knew what his eyes told him: that Sam was one grown-ass man, a fully functional adult, plus a damned good hunter to boot. But his heart saw only an angrily squalling bundle with tiny hands and tinier feet, waving fussily in a rain of ash and smoke, the only piece of his world that hadn’t burned to the ground one cold November night. 

Sam went on. “I mean, I know looking out for me is what Dad stuck you with, but,” Sam shook his head, “not like this, Dean. Not for what it’s doing to you. You’re going to have to trust me to look out for myself.”

Yeah. Well. Historically speaking, looking out for himself was not something Sam was good at. Soulless Sam, yes. Sam-with-soul, not so much. Sam-with-soul had the unfortunate habit of wanting to fix things, usually with fixes that involved jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, at times literally— _see, exhibit one, actual Hellfire, Lucifer’s Cage_.

He grunted what he considered a compromise.

“I trust you can handle yourself, Sammy. It’s the world I have a problem with.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah. World kinda sucks right now.” Sam looked up, past the still glaring donkey, down the street to where Zee was keeping an eye on Cas/ Hannah. “But things are different for you now, right?” Sam said keenly, his eyes on Zee. “I mean, once we track down the Book and close it, Cas will have his grace back, Ramiel will lose his power source, and the souls trapped in the zombies will be freed. We’ve gotten out of worse jams before.”

It sounded easy, the way Sam put it, except Sam had skipped over one major thing. Him. But he couldn’t blame Sam for only wanting to deal with one world ending problem at a time.

“Must be Thursday.”

Sam huffed, because Thursday was better than Tuesdays, in Sam’s book. And he could see Sam thinking just that, the full horrible weight of Sam’s sincerity in Sam’s eyes.

“I know what you’re thinking, Dean. About St. Louis. About the Mark—and Cain and Abel. You think it’s your destiny to repeat what Cain did. That I won’t defend myself. Not against you.” Sam paused, and somehow looked _amused_. “Well, stop. Because I can tell you, if I know one thing in this world, I know this. You won’t hurt me, Dean. That’s just not who you are.”

Was that even true? Some days, it felt like he was just dragging Sam into worse and worse crap. He’d always figured there was just no unseeing the things that bumped ugly in the night, and no getting out of the life. But then, if all those times he had saved Sam, to live to fight another day, each day weighing heavier and heavier on Sam’s shoulders until Sam finally somehow broke, had he _really_ saved Sam?

Sam was still staring at him earnestly, a faint but meant-to-be reassuring smile plastered to Sam’s face. 

“We’re going to rid of the Mark. There’s another way—Suriel said as much—remember? There is a way out of this, a way to make you human again. We just have to find it.”

He sighed, exasperated. “Even if there was a way, don’t you think _Cain_ would have found it by now?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But you’ve got one thing Cain doesn’t have.”

“What?”

Sam straightened. “Me.”


	76. Ballad for Dead Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Dashboard Prophets. 
> 
> Warning: Past trauma/pets.

He had to wait until they made another pit stop so he could get her alone. Luckily for him, Cas having to eat now was a thing, what the hell, even with Hannah’s angelic assist on board. Hannah said it had something to do with the fact that Cas was _Cas_ —not really your run of the mill human vessel, so he needed comfort food? He didn’t question it. He did send Sam with to supervise, because he saw Cas eying the super sized slurpees, and just _no_. Not a good idea. Not with 150 miles of Death Valley floor stretching out in front of them, angel powers or not. 

He waited until Sam and Cas/Hannah were out of earshot before he whirled on Zee putting gas in the Durango behind him.

“ _You want to tell me what the_ _hell_ happened back there?”

She was doing that cool thing again, eyes narrowed at him like _he_ was the unreasonable one, like she had no idea what he was talking about. 

“Back where?”

He locked the gas nozzle in place and cross the few steps to her.

“ _I said: don’t take chances._ Back there in that kiva, you had an opening.” He gestured angrily at all of himself, and the fact that he was still standing, here, on two feet and not a pile of dust. He lowered his voice. “If I’m a part of that douchebag’s New Heaven Plan—that _can’t_ happen. Back there, you should’ve…”

She didn’t even flinch.

“Job’s not done.”

“Job’s not… _I am the job._ ”

“And you’re not done.” She snapped. “Last I checked, we’re still being overrun by zombies. Worse than zombies. Those white smoke things. Which it seems,” Her gaze was razor sharp. “you can split apart.”

“That was a one-off thing. That was _Cas_. It was Cas resisting the demon that made that even possible.”

“But you _saw_ the demon. You pulled it out.” She said it like it was that simple. “If you can do that, you’re not out of control _._ ”

“I…” He gnashed his teeth together and darted a glance at the mini-Mart. He’d thrown Cas clear across the kiva without even giving a damn, without making sure Cas landed right. “If Hannah hadn’t been there…”

“She was.” 

He blew out a sharp huff, frustrated.

“It’s not just that.” He hissed. “The Mark…” He broke off, trying to put a finger on the seething turmoil that got worse every time Lucifer’s brand burned on his arm. There was something in store for him, something worse than even that asshat archangel Ramiel could imagine, and he could _feel_ it. “…it’s not about being Despair. It’s _Hell._ It’s _me._ It’s what _I’ll_ do. You promised you’d do what needs to be done _._ Before it’s too late. You have to do your job.”

She was blindingly fast when she chose to move, and blazingly furious. He reared back, but somehow he wasn’t fast enough to dodge her palm slapping onto his chest. She yanked him down to her by her fist in his shirt.

“ _The job’s not done._ ”

He flinched back.

“The First Blade’s the only thing we have.” Her voice was flat, like she was just ticking off facts. “The only thing that takes down the Fallen, the only thing that we’re sure nukes the zombies. _You’_ re the only thing we have. All you have to do is stay in control.”

He leaned down until his nose was an inch from hers. “ _I know that._ _But I can’t. I won’t always be able to.”_

“You will. Because you have. Every time.”

He choked out a scoff. It never failed to blow him away, the way she was so sure. He tried to back her off. “Not _every_ time. Not in St. Louis. And almost not now. And next time.” His voice cracked. “There _can’t_ be a next time.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d do. 

Her eyes narrowed. Then almost dispassionately she said, “You know, the first place Rufus parked me, they tried drugs. Anti-psychotics, to fix the screaming nightmares. Boarding school—you see—screaming like that at night doesn’t go well. The drugs didn’t work a damn, because memories aren’t imaginary.”

He froze.

“Rufus, you understand, was royally pissed when he found out. So he put a lot of effort into finding options. The next place was more modern. They wanted to try animal therapy. And that was fine. Fresh air out in the countryside, and Thunder did love to run. Every afternoon we’d head out, west across the pasture, straight up to the old chestnut tree, then on to the fence line. It was predictable. I should have known better.”

She paused, her voice eerily monotone. 

“She was waiting for us there. The demon. She wanted me to let her into the Vault. So she shattered his hind legs. Multiple fractures, ugly enough to make sure I could see pieces of bone. He went down screaming in pain.”

She stopped again, no expression at all on her face when he could barely breathe.

“Did you know the exorcism works even if you jam all the words together with no spaces? Well, it does.”

It was all he could do to keep from reaching out for her, with his hands of fire and blood, hands that he kept clenched into fists by his sides.

“There was no one around for miles. I’d been around the stables long enough to know what had to happen.”

Her eyes were like ice. Emotionless, because she had to be. The look she leveled at him was flat, and deadly with promise.

“ _Believe you me, I_ know _my job. And you_ will _stay in control, because_ our _job is not done._ ”

His eyes flicked down to the gleam of Toby’s amulet at her throat.

He swallowed hard and nodded once.

She released him with a not-so-gentle shove and turned on her heel back to the Durango.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am also unable to make it through How to Train Your Dragon 2 or 3 without bawling, so. Extra hugs.


	77. A Gift to the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Loveless.

They were halfway across Arizona when Cas/Hannah suddenly sat bolt upright in the back, eyes glowing, filling the interior of the Impala with a blaze of light and wings.

“Something’s wrong.”

“HEY!” He hung on to the wheel by the skin of his teeth, one hand trying to brush a flurry of incorporeal feathers and fluff out of his eyes. “Hannah, stop. _STOP._ You’re not doing any good bolting off into the middle of it.”

Grace bright eyes turned to him, and he had to squint against the burn of it.

“They’ve been _caught_.” For an angel, she sounded distraught.

“The Scoobies?” Sam asked.

“Eliam. Joanna. Jacob, and my vessel Annabelle. I have to…”

“No, you don’t. Hate to break it to you, sister, but those combo-platter white smoke things are stronger than you now, remember? All you’re going to do by going there is handing Cas to them on a silver platter.”

The brightness subsided with a disgruntled puff, and Cas was Cas again.

“Cas?”

“Hurry, Dean. We have to get to them before,” Cas broke off, Cas’ face pale with what he’d guess were some pretty awful memories. “Before…”

He floored it.

******

The last thing he expected when he walked into the dimly lit bar was Crowley.

Crowley teleported himself across the room and seized on to his jacket with both hands.

“Make. It. Stop.” Crowley grit out between clenched teeth.

Dean jerked back, away from Crowley, because Crowley was … a plume of white smoke. Only, not really? He straightened, then squinted, because the red smoke that was Crowley was dusted all over with disco bright flecks of light, twisted through with a shadow of something else, something that vanished when he tried to _see_.

Almost negligently Crowley threw up a hand, and the ear-splitting whine from across the room that was Hannah reclaiming her vessel was muted.

Beside him Sam stared at Crowley, because that was _way_ more mojo than Crowley should have.

“ _They_ said this would work.” Crowley jabbed an angry finger at the gaggle of angels clustered at the other side of the bar. “I was doing the thing you told me to do, when I ran across this lot…” Crowley glared at the Scoobies, Eliam and Joanna and Jacob, “…wandering the desert. I should have left them there.”

“Crowley, what the hell are you talking about?” Sam interjected.

Crowley threw up his hands.

“When they offered a power boost, who could turn it down? We were all on the run. This way, we could all hide in plain sight. Win-win for everyone. I could move around freely, passing myself as one of _them_ , and the Eye of Hope would pass us by.”

Sam looked to him in confusion. Zee raised an eyebrow.

“ _He’s_ the ‘white smoke’ we were detecting.” Cas growled. “They,” Cas pointed at Eliam and company, “gave him angel blood. It allowed him to pass for one of the Fallen.”

Dean’s jaw dropped. Crowley snarled.

“They said it wouldn’t do anything _bad_. They _lied._ This grace…it’s like _HIVES_. It’s _ITCHY_.”

Dean looked across the room at Cas’ Scooby gang then back at Crowley.

“And that’s why you’ve hiding them from Ramiel? Maybe even looking out for them?”

Crowley scowled and set his jaw. “If word of this ever got out…”

Dean snorted. Yeah. No shit.

“How’d you agree to this anyway?”

Crowley released him abruptly and threw up both hands. “It _seemed_.” Crowley drew out the word and glared across the room at Eliam. “like a good idea at the time. A grace-full power up.” Crowley narrowed eyes at him. “But power-ups never work out as advertised, do they?”

Dean grimaced, careful not to touch the Mark on his arm.

“This is why.” Crowley turned and pointed an accusing finger across the room. “We have contracts. Terms. Stipulations. Fine print. That’s where you tuck the caveats. Pre-conditions. Like how to break a spell that can’t be reversed. How to…”

And Crowley clamped his lips together in a sharp stop, but not sharply enough for Sam, who crowded in aggressively.

“ _What did you just say?_ ”

He had to hand it to Crowley, the angelically innocent look Crowley had perfected.

“Me? Nothing.”

“The spell, Crowley.” Sam’s voice dipped, angry. “The fine print. You just said Metatron’s spell could be broken. You told us the spell couldn’t be _reversed_. But it can be _broken_.”

Crowley’s eyes got wider and he clamped his lips together tighter, shaking his head.

Sam turned to him.

He looked at Crowley narrowly, at the frantic, silent _NO_ s Crowley was trying to glare him into accepting.

“Crowley? What didn’t you tell us?”

He could compel Crowley to spill. He knew this. By his side Zee shifted, her fingertips just brushing the skin of his wrist. Crowley’s eyes dropped to the movement, followed it back up to Zee beside him, lingered on Zee’s anti-telekinesis hex, before Crowley looked back to him. 

“I want it on the record I said this is a bad idea. An extremely bad idea.”

Sam glared.

“Fine. Metatron’s spell can be broken. Broken. Not reversed.” Crowley over-enunciated each word. “As in, no putting Humpty Dumpty back together again, you understand. No shoving this lot back upstairs, except for the old fashioned, earn-your-virtue way.” Crowley glared at the gaggle of angels across the room. “And from what I’ve seen, that might take a while.”

Dean waited.

“Just remember, don’t come crying to me when we’re stuck with these wingless monkeys.” Crowley scratched balefully at the back of his neck and scowled. “To break Metatron’s spell, you’ll need to neutralize the ingredients. One. Retrieve the grace of one angel.” Crowley pointed at Cas. “Check. Two. Unstring Cupid’s Bow.” Crowley’s gaze flitted over them again, right to left. “Never did like the wanker. Don’t worry about him. Third. Heart of a nephilim.”

Crowley paused.

“Look. I didn’t know this was even going to be possible, okay? When you first asked me, I didn’t know Dean here would go hulk up with the bloody Mark of Cain. You _can’t_ destroy a Nephilim heart. Especially not now, with the Book open. It’s theoretically impossible. The power that would require…” Crowley studied him warily. “Are you sure you want to go testing the Mark, Squirrel?”

_Make it burn._ It echoed in his ears, in his eyes, a red hot flavor on his tongue. If he held out his hand now it would be fire, and he could see understanding or even pity in Crowley’s oddly solemn face. His feet were at the edge of the abyss, and all that was keeping him in check was the touch of Zee’s fingers on his wrist.

“Why?” It figured that Sam would have to ask. When Crowley didn’t answer, Sam tried again. “Why can’t you destroy a Nephilim heart?”

Crowley’s gaze jogged up to Sam, considering, before Crowley heaved a sigh.

“Look. Where do the Nephilim come from?”

Sam squinted. “The Fallen.”

“And what destroys the Fallen?”

“The Firs… “ Sam cut off mid-word. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Then you’d better get used to the New Normal, Moose. Because this, “ Crowley gestured expansively around him, at the messed up world beyond the walls, “is what you’ve got.”


	78. Stairway to Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Led Zepplin.

They left Crowley to look after Hannah and the Scoobies. Because Crowley promised to, at least as long as the angel blood lasted, and strangely enough, Dean believed him. He couldn’t say exactly why—and if he stopped to think about it, it would give him a headache, so he didn’t think about it.

They hit up Vegas, because it was _right there_. Sam bowed resignedly to tradition, because it was tradition, even if tradition came a bit early this year. On the other hand, he was really starting to have second thoughts about introducing Cas to Vegas buffets. _Castiel_ , Angel of the Lord, would have cared less. _Cas_ , on the other hand, was on his third trip to the dessert bar.

“I thought Gabriel was the only one with the sweet tooth.” Sam said, watching Cas pile an unlikely combination of burritos and chocolate and pies onto his plate. “I think that’s making me a little sick.”

Dean shrugged. Hannah said to “ _feed him”_ , and well, food was food. He figured if Cas managed to hold down yesterday’s pickled beets and cotton candy, then burritos with chocolate sauce wasn’t going to kill him.

“Hmph.” was Zee’s only comment as Cas stopped in front a green jello monument. She picked up her coffee cup and stood. “Refill?”

Sam shook his head. Dean handed her his cup. If he was aware when their fingers brushed, he was aware of everything she did. He watched her go, and Sam watched him watching.

“You know, I was going to ask Jess to marry me.” Sam volunteered out of nowhere.

Dean spun in his seat. The vinyl beneath his butt squeaked, because “ _Here???_ ”

He’d already been through one of Sam’s shotgun Vegas weddings, and _one_ Vegas wedding was enough. He looked around skeptically at all the gilt and the gold then back at Sam, because Vegas didn’t seem like it’d be Jess’ Smurf-ette style at all.

Sam huffed. “ _No._ Not here.” Sam gazed off into his memories. “I had a place picked out. The Berthoud Pass in Colorado, up there on 40? You remember, up in the Rockies, on the Continental Divide.”

He did remember, but he was surprised Sam did. Getting up there had been a white knuckled hour working to keep Baby on the road; ice and hairpin turns did not mix well. But Dad had wanted him to track down a Chenoo, so they went. He thought that Sam had slept the entire way up.

“We were going to hike the Continental Divide trail the summer after graduation. The trail starts in New Mexico, but Jess liked the Rockies section the best.” Sam mused into his beer. “She got into med school, you know.”

He did not know. Sam never talked about it. And he never asked.

“So we figured, one last hurrah, before life got real.”

Dean winced, because life had gotten real, but just not the way Sam had been expecting. Med school and law school and then 2.5 kids, that was what Sam had been expecting. Dean closed his fingers around nothing, missing a coffee cup to hold on to. He latched onto his water glass instead. “You never said.”

Sam was peeling the label on his dewy beer bottle. “No.” Sam looked up, tentative. “But I thought, you know, maybe I should. Talk about it.

Huh. This was new. For all that Sam did talk, those four years were near blanks. He had always thought it was because Sam figured he wouldn’t get it, or that he’d poke fun at it, which, okay, maybe he’d done once or three times. Dean leaned back in his seat, stretching to ease the knot that had formed between his shoulder and his neck. “So you got the ring and everything?”

That earned him a flicker, nearly a smile—which meant not only had Sam got the ring, but Sam still _had_ the ring—somewhere, and wasn’t that interesting. He tried to imagine his kid brother, on one knee on the snowy ground, asking the most important question of his life. It seemed like something he should be able to do, should have done before, and not something he had to think so hard about.

Sam darted a glance out over the floor, automatically tracking Cas and tracking Zee, a hunter’s habit, before Sam looked back at him again. “Yeah, well. I’d have to have gotten us up there first. Would’ve been a trick, in the Geo.”

“The _what_ now?”

“My Geo.”

He stared at Sam like Sam was an alien.

“You owned a Geo.”

Sam shrugged. “Bought it used. It was all I could afford.”

“You _bought_ a Geo.”

He felt the point needed reiterating. He wanted to put his hands over Baby’s ears, even at this distance, because this—this was a betrayal of the ultimate kind.

“It wasn’t like I needed to get anywhere in a hurry.”

Well. No. Sam had Gone To College. Out of the life, Sam had no need to cross the country in a hurry, and a toy car with a top speed of _maybe_ 80 was fine. Of course it was.

“I could’ve sent you money.”

Another flicker, another barely there smile. “It was fine, Dean. I managed. Got a job at a coffee place and everything. I made enough to get by.”

Because yeah, Sam had never wanted money. What Sam had wanted was freedom, and to find his own way. A way that got sideswiped and stepped all over when he had knocked on Sam’s Palo Alto door—ok, he’d actually broken in—but the end result was the same.

“Sam.”

Sam looked up. “It’s fine, Dean.” Sam said firmly, redirecting his attention firmly out over the floor again. Whether that ‘fine’ was for then or for now, he couldn’t really tell, except Sam said, “Azazeal would have caught up with me eventually. If you hadn’t been there—“ Sam paused. “Just. You were there. You always are. So you know,” Sam smiled. “I’m glad you are.”

******

“I’ve been thinking.” Cas announced when he came back to the table, setting down his plate.

Dean twitched, and stared. Not at the chocolate sauce covered burrito, he was over that, but at the mini quiche-Lucky Charms-pudding heap that was topped off, improbably, with cheese sauce.

He didn’t even want to know.

“If you were going to hide the Book of Life,” Cas continued, ignoring the fact they were all staring at his plate. “Why wouldn’t you hide it in Heaven?”

“Because the other angels would find it.” Sam answered automatically, eyes still stuck on Cas’ pudding and cheese monstrosity—before Sam snapped back to business. “But then where would Metatron have put it?”

“Last place Ramiel would ever look, was what Inias said.” Zee said, turning her mug between her hands. Her elbow bumped his, and she was warm by his side. He settled more deeply into his seat.

“Yeah, but where’s that?” He groused, cranky, because Metatron was a smug, snobby bastard. “The only thing we know about Ramiel is he thinks he’s the new Big Cheese, and the only real thing we know about Metatron is that bug up his butt about angels never picking up a book.” He gestured at Cas, and Cas’ fresh new download of _everything._

Sam froze in the middle of picking up his beer. “Ramiel would never pick up a book.”

Dean cocked his head and scoffed. “Why would he? I mean, the douche-nozzle obviously thinks he knows everything already.”

Sam and Zee traded a glance.

“Not a library.” Zee mused. “Someone would notice.”

“Not a bookstore.” Sam frowned. “Warehouse?”

Cas swallowed a mini-quiche. “The Book is rather large.”

“Yeah.” Dean sipped at his coffee. “Couldn’t be any place people would look, because…” he tilted his cup at Cas. “I mean, Anna’s grace grew an oak tree overnight when it fell to Earth. That kind of thing attracts attention.”

“Not if the warehouse is abandoned.” Sam said slowly. “Not if the warehouse is abandoned, and full of old textbooks.”

He squinted at Sam, and Sam’s giant noggin, because Sam knew some odd ass things. Sam read for _fun_.

“There’s an abandoned textbook warehouse in Detroit. Hasn’t been used in years. It’s big enough you probably _could_ grow a tree in it and no one would really pay attention. I mean, think about it, textbooks. Ramiel would never look there.”

Dean raised both eyebrows, because again, _odd ass things_. Sam waved him off. “I ran across it years ago looking into a weird body that might’ve been a case, but it turned out it wasn’t. The thought of all those books lying around and rotting just kinda stuck with me.”

Yeah. He could see that. There were days when he seriously thought Sam might go all Gollum on him for “mishandling” some of the bunker’s older books. In retrospect, they probably shouldn’t have left Sam alone in so many libraries, but _someone_ had to do the research.

“Dean.” Sam started in, all serious-like, and he waved Sam off, because he knew what Sam was about to say.

“I’ve got this, Sam.” He said firmly, because closing the Book was something they had to do. There was no other choice. Sam’s face puckered, still worrying at it, when by his side Zee moved, her hand on his arm as she reached across him, ostensibly for a napkin. And Sam tracked that telltale movement with an eagle eye, before swallowing the rest of his words and settling back into his seat.

“So, Detroit?” He asked, knowing what memories Sam had. Sam never went back to Detroit unless he absolutely had to.

Sam sighed. “Yeah. Looks like we’re going to Detroit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: Had a little Geo Metro hatchback as a rental once. There's nothing quite so hair-raising as cruising down the highway at 60 mph, the engine squealing in protest at the speed, and nothing visible out the rear window but the grill of a Very Irritated Semi. Fun times. Also, that baby spun a on wet road at the drop of a hat. Learned to apply brakes gently _real fast._


	79. House of Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Scorpions.

Cain was waiting for them outside the motel, leaning casually against a sweet ride of a bike.

Cain slowly took off the aviator shades that shielded his eyes from the world, or the world from him. Those cold blues scanned over their little group, fixing searingly on him and peeling off a layer of skin.

“ _How._ ”

The next thing he knew he was inside the motel room, the impact of slamming into the wall shattering against his spine, with Cain’s forearm crushing his throat. He kicked out, but his feet made no contact with the ground. In the distance he could hear Sam yelling, feel Cas trying to do something, to break down the door, to bust through the window, but this was _Cain_.

“Ho…w…. _wha…t_?” He choked out.

“The spell.” Cain snarled, the studs on Cain’s leather jacket digging into his larynx. “How did you trigger the spell?”

Cain spit the last word out, and he wasn’t sure how Cain was doing it, but the edges of the room grew blurry. Like he was being deprived of air, when he didn’t need to breathe. He gripped onto Cain’s forearm, where the Mark had once lived, and tried to pry Cain off his throat to no avail. The window came crashing in, and Sam burst through it, followed closely by Cas, by Zee, but Cain didn’t even turn around before they were all flying up against the opposite wall.

Dean yanked harder. When that failed again, he reached out with his right hand for the First Blade, only to have it slammed ruthlessly into the wall above his head.

“No.” Cain snapped. “You don’t use _my_ weapon against _me_. Not until I tell you to. _And I don’t tell you to._ ”

Cain pressed closer, until he was nose-to-nose, Cain’s eyes boring into his face.

The world swam.

He’d been to Hell. Felt his skin flayed into embers by fire. Had his meat torn from him in strips, knife steady under Alistair’s hand. Been left broken into pieces and panting, then put back together, just to have it start all over again.

But none of that was _this_.

_Now_ faded away in the burn of Cain’s eyes, _murder_ locked onto his, fading out the rest of the room. A hot sun was beating down on his shoulders, the air desert dry, and his hands were wet.

With blood.

A heartbeat fading under his hands.

Uncomprehending eyes reflecting the cloudless sky stared up at him, Abel’s hands slippery, scrambling at the bone whiteness of the donkey’s jawbone sunk deep beneath his ribs, Abel pawing at him, twitching, leaving streaks of blood on his arm, down over the raised scar of the Mark, red stains smeared into the sand roughness of his tunic. Abel’s weight, heavy and heavier in his arms. He held on as gently as he could, letting his brother’s head loll against his shoulder, resting his cheek against Sam’s always too long hair, listening as Sammy’s breaths wheezed wet and slowly to a stop, Sam’s weight lapsing softly into his arms, this one last time.

His entire being shuddered, torn apart. The hell of a single moment, burning bright and eternal, not something done to him, but something he had done.

A memory.

Fact.

Inescapable.

Dean kicked out blindly, not caring that it hurt. He tried to turn his head away, close his eyes, do _something,_ anything that would take him away from what was in Cain’s heart.

One everlasting moment.

Hell.

“I gave you the Mark, because I thought you might be _worthy_.” Cain spat out, the words a razor cutting into his skin. “ _How could you_?”

He strained every muscle against however Cain was holding him and got nowhere. He wanted to look across the room to check on Sam, but he was afraid to. Afraid of the memory clouding his mind that wasn’t really a memory, at least, not yet. He tore his shoulder out of the socket attempting a punch to get free.

“How…could….I… _what_?”

He had no idea what Cain was talking about. They hadn’t broken Metatron’s spell yet, hadn’t even got near it. And if push came to shove—he wasn’t going to have a choice. The fate of the world, of Heaven and Hell, hung on their getting the Book closed. He’d tip his ass over the edge using the First Blade to do what he had to do—become whatever he had to become, but Sam—no. He had a plan for that. He wasn’t going to hurt Sam. 

“You don’t know.”

He gasped air, because Cain eased up. Slightly. Stopped crushing his windpipe as much so he could get a breath. Why did he need a breath?

“You don’t know about the spell.”

“What spell?” He slid to the ground with a thump as Cain released him.

“The spell to remove the Mark.”

Dean thumped back into the wall on his own. From across the room he heard Sam pant out eagerly, “There’s a spell?”

Cain’s face was like granite. “There’s a _price._ ”

No. 

“What is it?” Sam persisted.

He moved towards Sam, one hand out, trying to do the impossible and keep Sam from asking more questions.

“Sam, no.” He barked, for all the good it did him, because Cain had those cold eyes fixed on Sam now, and _no._

“A soul for a soul.”

He didn’t have to turn around to know what expression was on Sam’s face. Eager. Too eager. He didn’t want to see the consideration on Cas’ face, thinking what necessary sacrifices could be made.

“Any soul?”

Cain’s brief smile was mocking. “It’s not that simple. You think you would get off that easy? No. The sacrifice must go both ways—“ Cain considered him almost clinically. “A soul _you_ cannot bear to lose, and a soul given willingly. The bond between you, strong enough to erase the darkness.”

“ _No._ ”

His single articulated word was steel. He had learned to live with Dad’s sacrifice burning a hole in his conscience. He had Sam to look after. But this. Just _no._ He backed away from Sam as he said it. The room was too small, there wasn’t enough space, wasn’t enough distance between them. He couldn’t be here.

He ran.

******

There was an empty space where Dean had been just a moment before.

“How?” Cas asked Cain. “Souls are indestructible. The Mark is indestructible.”

“Exactly.” Cain replied grimly. 

“But…” Sam tried to pull his mind off the distraction of Dean pulling a runner. He turned towards Cain. “ _How?_ You said Dean already knew about the spell. He doesn’t. We don’t.”

“He must. Or he can’t be doing what he’s doing.” Cain snarled. “He’s _dead._ No matter what Crowley’s said, this isn’t some kind of afterlife. Dean’s a _demon_. His body is a meatsuit. And yet,” Cain’s eyes narrowed. “He _breathes._ He thinks he needs it. He uses the First Blade—“ Cain studied him critically, reading the affirmation in his expression, “—without losing control. That takes _centuries,_ if it happens at all.”

“Maybe for you.” Sam retorted.

“ _It. Takes. Centuries._ ” Cain repeated flatly. “And that’s without Ramiel’s meddling.”

“This is a trap.” Cas said slowly. “This is the trap.”

“At last the light dawns.”

“That’s why the Fallen—what you said about Suriel’s ‘offer’, Sam. If _you_ try to remove the Mark—“ Cas stopped, sighed, and bowed his head. “—if you trade your soul for Dean’s, if you try—“

“You’ll still lose. If you trade in your soul for Dean’s, your brother goes off the ledge. _And when Dean loses it, and the Mark takes over_ … well. Ramiel thinks they’ll be polar opposites.” Cain scoffed, a bitter, mocking laugh. “The little he knows. Because Ramiel isn’t Hope. But if Dean loses it, _Dean will be_ _Despair_. Do you understand, Sam? True Despair. It means your brother is going to go on a killing spree like no one’s ever seen before. He won’t stop after he’s taken out the Fallen, he won’t stop after destroying the zombies. He will keep going, until he’s wipe the earth clean. And then he’ll move on to Hell, to Heaven. He will take out everything. _Everything._ ” Cain paused, stern. “But he’s not there yet. Dean’s still afraid of the angel blade, which means the demon knows it can still die. You need to stop him. Now. While you still can.”

“No.”

“You have to.” The set of Cain’s face brooked no latitude. “You promised him as much.”

Sam clenched his hands into fists, because there was no way—no way he could do that now, not when there was another option open to him. And what tethered Dean to the world wasn’t him.

“How is it done, this spell of yours?” Zee’s voice cut clear across the room. Cain turned slowly to face her, eyes drifting over her head to foot as if he were just noticing her for the first time.

“It’s simple. Put your hand on the Mark. _If_ the ties exist that bind you, then those ties will bind you, and the Mark’s hold over Dean will be broken.”

“That’s it?” Cas asked skeptically. “What happens to the soul?”

Cain turned away and stared at the wall. “Lost. Scattered as dust and starlight across the infinity of the universe. Forever falling into darkness.” The ghost of something flickered across Cain’s face. “This was the only secret I ever kept from Colette. And now, that arrogant angel and your brother are threatening her soul in Heaven. I won’t allow it.” Cain straightened, the shadows on the wall behind him suddenly looming and dark. “You know what you have to do.”

******

They didn’t try to stop Cain when he walked out the door. Sam wasn’t sure they could have anyway.

“Sam.” Cas said slowly. “Why does Cain think the spell’s already been started?”

“I…I’m not sure.” _A flash of light, blindingly bright, and Dean’s eyes green again when he picked up the First Blade._ Sam shook his head to get rid of the image, and squared his shoulders. “I have to do this.”

“Sam. You heard what Cain said. You can’t. I know I’m not…” Cas paused, “…’a real boy’, but maybe…”

“No, Cas. It has to be me. It makes sense, doesn’t it? There’s a kind of balance to it. The Mark was given to Cain to kill Abel, and I save Dean. A soul for a soul.”

Cas tilted his head gravely. “He’ll see you coming, Sam. There’s no way he’ll ever let you get close enough. But with the grace Hannah left me…”

“No. I can’t let you take the fall for me, Cas—and, I’m sorry, but we’re not even sure that’ll work. We’re only going to get one shot at this. We’ve got to be sure. It’s gotta be…”

“Sam.”

Zee’s voice cut through the onrush of his words. Sam’s stomach flipped. He sat down on the closest chair.

Zee stepped forward from where she stood by the broken window. As she moved, the light glinted off the silver hex around her neck. Cas glanced at her briefly, and stopped.

“Is that a…”

"Yes.” Zee cut Cas off. “After Dean’s broken Metatron’s spell—that Nephilim shield—and we get your grace back, can you restrain him for a second, even with the First Blade in his hand?”

Cas considered it. “Maybe.”

“And can you send a soul back in time while you’re doing that?”

Cas frowned. “I think so.”

The corners of Zee’s lips twitched, not exactly a smile. She turned away from Cas, and looked at him. 

“Then tell him when and where, Sam.”

_No._

“We’ve met once, before Dolgeville, haven’t we, Sam? Somewhere you remember, and I don’t. Some _time_. Your past, my future.”

No. He hadn’t done this. He hadn’t screwed Dean over like this.

“That’s why from the jump—it’s always been, ’ _What_ are you?—not ‘who’.”

“No.”

He threw the word into the room, trying to ward off the tide with a pebble. He clawed his fingers through his hair and jerked up, pacing from one wall to the other then the other, banging around the room like a bee trapped in a jar, trying to find a way out into sunlight. 

He spun around, facing Zee.

“Dean’s a _demon_. And _you_ know demons. They don’t feel…he can’t…you…Dean can’t possi…”

He talked himself to a full stop, because Dean was too obvious. A blind man could see it, how his brother felt. The question had never been that. The question had always been her.

And her expression was peaceful. Serene.

_Relieved._

As if this was the _preferable_ option. 

Oh God.

Oh God.

He sat down heavily. He had been _blind_. 

So _blind_.

The breath drained from his body, understanding too late why things with Dean had felt so much easier. Why in these last weeks, whenever they hunted, Zee never left Dean’s side.

And he finally understood what had gone down, back in Billings. What Dean had asked her to do.

And why, after everything they’d been through, she’d finally bolted.

_He_ understood why she came back. 

Maybe he should have always known she would.

She had been way too easy to find.

“Dean doesn’t know, does he? He can’t _see_ it.” It was obvious. It should have been obvious, even to his pigheaded, stubborn ass brother. He looked up at Zee, his voice pleading. “Please. You have to tell him. He needs …”

Zee just looked at him. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

Because the only way Dean wouldn’t fight her on this, the only way Dean would let her get close enough—was if Dean thought he was just a job.

_God_.

Looking into her eyes now, all the unsaid things were as clear as day. 

_Look after him, Sam. Keep him safe. Keep his soul safe._

Sam clawed his fingers through his hair again, making a tangle of it, because it goddamn hurt to breathe. _No secrets_ , he had told Dean. He had made Dean promise. And this… _this…_

“He’ll _hate_ me.” He bowed his head, and put it in between his hands, watching his dreams go up in flames, taking with it his hope and his redemption. “And I’ll _deserve_ it.”

He didn’t expect the gentleness in her hand on his head, brushing the hair off his forehead where he had let it fall. She tipped his face up by his chin, and he let her, because there was no place to hide, because he’d built her this trap, and the least he could do was face her. She smoothed the wetness off his cheek with her thumb.

“This is our best shot, Sam, and you know it. This is the way it was always going to be. It’s not on you.”

“Zelda, you do still have a choice.” Cas interrupted, staring at the silver hex around Zee’s neck. “You can choose not to go back. This timeline will unravel. None of it will come to pass for you. You need never meet.”

Zee looked away for a long minute.

“Yes, Cas.” Her lips curved with a luminous smile that would have told Dean everything he needed to know had Dean been there to see it. “I know.”


	80. Fade Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Bad Company.

He showed up halfway through her morning practice session, as she thought he might, suddenly sitting on a park bench nearby. She ignored him, carrying on as normal, careful not to miss a beat. When she was done, she packed up the sword as she had done each morning, and hefted the sling over her shoulder. He didn’t move to get up, all levity gone, weighted in place by Cain’s revelations.

She stood still, and waited.

He looked up at long last, darkness and misery in those eyes of sunlight. “I shouldn’t be here. From the first time Sam took me to see that faith healer after the rawhead.”

He stood up, came close enough she had to look up at him. Those green eyes were intense with his next words.

“Don’t let me hurt Sam.”

He held her gaze relentlessly, making sure she heard him. Understood.

“I won’t.”

She kept her voice cool and even. Unemotional.

He went on, the words terse.

“Half a second, probably less.”

How long he could keep the demon at bay; a warning. She nodded, carefully neutral. She turned away towards the car. He would stay away, out of Sam’s reach until the time came to go, not taking any chances. She focused on breathing evenly, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead. She kept her hands by her side, loose and easy and empty. She concentrated on a point in the distance. She took a step forward.

His hand came warm and hard around her elbow, spinning her around and back to him. His other hand curved around her neck, tipping her head gently back so he could see her eyes. The kiss was achingly sweet, the barest touch of lips like benediction, poignant for all the things that would never be. Never said. Her eyelids fluttered closed against the soft curl of warmth.

When she opened them a second later, he was gone.


	81. The Unforgiven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Metallica.

He waited for them in the shadows, well back from the entryway, tapping the First Blade restlessly against his shin. He waited, until he saw them silhouetted against the light, Cas’ trench coat fluttering in the breeze. Cas turned towards him unerringly, and took a step forward.

“No. No closer.” He was grateful, for the time, that Cas had no wings. It meant he couldn’t move faster than human feet, couldn’t move Sam faster than human speed. He kept his back to the wall and kept his eyes on Sam. “Where is it?”

Cas stared at him a second longer, indecision flickering on his face. 

“That way.”

******

The spell-shield made from the Nephilim’s heart was blue. Blue and shimmery, cliché like every movie force field he had ever seen. His hand tightened around the First Blade and he took a deep breath, glancing down once at Zee by his side. She had her angel blade out, looking past the Nephilim shield, looking at the glowing orb of Cas’ grace, parked over the biggest damned book he had ever seen.

This was it.

He took a deep breath, tracking Sam’s position out of the corner of his eye. When he was sure Sam was far enough away, he swung at the blue-glowing curtain, hard.

The nephilim’s heart shattered on contact with the First Blade, splitting into a thousand flakes of light. Bits of light that swirled angrily in the air, looking for something, swarming towards… _him_.

“ _GO_ , CAS, _GO, GO, GO_!” He swung the First Blade through the flecks of light, and took a step back, drawing the angrily buzzing cloud that surged towards him, tiny flecks that nipped at the First Blade, bit at his arm, bit at his face. He swatted at them, but all that did was make them buzz louder, shriller, until he wanted to do nothing but clap his hands over his ears, to block out the sound _of a thousand prayers and invocations and curses and hopes, one voice overlapping another and another, the denseness of everyone in the city pressing down on him, every voice shrill and shrieking, nipping at him, nipping and nipping, taking tiny bites out of his mind like a shoal of pirahnas, shrieking at him until he couldn’t THINK._

The Mark roared to flame on his arm, a roar of fire loud enough to drown everything else out, drown out the thousands and millions and billions of pinprick _gray things stretching over the horizon and beyond, stretching through time without end, monsterangeldemonhuman, nothing out there but a thick swarm of gray, cresting over his head like a tidal wave, come to drown him_.

He swung violently toward the flash of movement at the corner of his eye— _angel_ —brilliant and searingly bright, so bright, too bright, too brilliant, and he snarled at the new ear-splitting whine that suddenly filled the room, filled his head, a reminder of something he had lost, _fallen from_ , and he needed to pull it down, down into the blanket of the earth, where it would be muffled, _where he would make it burn._

“ _DEAN!!_ ”

A voice.

_Do this. Do this do this do this, and it will all be okay.  
_

_It all had to burn._

The chanting pounded in his head; whispered in his soul, insistent. He curled his fingers tighter around the hilt of the First Blade.

_Let it burn._

“Cas, NOW.”

A woman’s voice, the command in it sharp and authoritative. He knew that voice. By a hair of concentration he clung on, clung on to the promise in that voice. Stay still. He had to hold still, for just one more second. He shut his eyes tight, panting with the effort of it, his arm rigid, his nails drawing blood as they bit into his palms. He braced himself for the quick thrust of an angel blade beneath his ribs. 

It never came. 

A hand clamped down hard on his forearm instead, palm covering the burning Mark. His thoughts were so slow, nerves and muscles bound by a single gesture from Cas, unresponsive to the desperate panic of his heart. The hand that covered the Mark was cool, like water from a cold mountain stream, caressing over his skin. It severed his heated connection to the Blade, and his nerveless fingers dropped the ancient instrument of death, unable to manage even a twitch to summon it back. He felt dizzy, as the power of the Mark drained from him through the touch on his arm, drained the power that animated him, gave him what passed now for life.

Another glow started, this time much closer, bright in its immediate proximity, a different kind of burning heat. He feared what it was. Even though his eyes were sure Sam was well away from him, his brain was not adding, not computing and making a scramble of the possibilities.

With a wrench he tore his head out of Cas’ control, the muscles of his neck cording and yielding with reluctance to a combined exercise of human and demonic will. He looked down. He did not want to see what he saw, did not want to acknowledge it, did not want the pain that cleaved the demon from his soul at last even as it took the fake life from his limbs and tore apart his human heart. He looked into amber eyes like molten gold, at her hand on his arm, the bright steady blue of her soul merged with the Mark’s red glow like a balm over a wound, and that small smile he knew as his alone on her pale lips. He did not think he could hurt more, but he did. Her face was serene, but the fingers digging into his arm and the rigidity of her posture said anything but. He tried to pull his right arm from her grip, to free himself, to free her of the spell binding them now, but he was fading fast and she held on, grip tightening to prevent his escape. Everything spun and spun and darkness threatened. He could no longer see Sam, nor Cas, nor anything else but the narrow area immediately before him.

A whoosh of air fluttered to his right. He felt Cas place two fingers on his forehead, and saw him place two fingers on Zee’s at the same moment. A thing wrenched in his body, vaguely like a heart remembering its purpose, and beat weakly against old fatal injuries. The wound he carried from Metatron’s angel blade reopened, and blood spilled out.

Time sped up, then slowed to a crawl before it stood perfectly still. He could see her eyes, shining with clarity and peace, and the absence of tears. Her expression held him, saying all the thousand things for which words were weak. His throat worked, as he tried to find a way to empty what was left of his ruined soul into his eyes. To give her it all in the too small moment of time left to them. Her free hand reached up as he bent down, and drifted the softest of caresses along his cheek. Her light glowed until it stung like needles to look, but he would not look away. 

Her smile was brilliant with anticipation over her whispered words.

“Be seeing you.”

His legs gave way as the light from her soul expanded, blinding him. A heavy rush of solid air knocked him backwards, away from Cas’ healing fingers as Cas too was flung by the growing iridescence. The shimmering glow contracted inward to a point, then disappeared. 

His heart gave a final weak flutter as his lungs collapsed. Blood pumped in slowly failing spurts through the hole in his chest. His world dimmed and darkened.

And then it was just dark.


	82. A Time for Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Andre Rieu.

The first thing he was aware of was pain. Pain on a scale of one to not good, went past not good and into probably very bad. His left arm shook when he wrenched it off a hard cold floor, and pressed it to his midriff, where he could feel his blood oozing warmly into his shirt, in a way that was Really Very Bad.

He couldn’t move his right arm at all.

"Sam?” He croaked weakly, because it was a hell of a beat down Metatron had put on him, before, …before…before…

He shook his head to try to clear it, only that was a bad idea. His brain jiggled, gooey like jelly, and queasy making. He leaned back, hitting his head against what felt like a concrete wall.

Great. Double the concussion for the price of one.

A concussion was the least of his problems, though, if the rasping wet breaths he was taking was anything to go by. He kept his left hand clamped over his chest wound— _apply pressure, Dean—_ and tried moving his right arm again, but his arm stayed unresponsive and numb. All he could feel was a scalding pain around the spot where Cain had branded the Mark onto his arm.

The Mark.

His eyes flew open. Or they tried to. The right one was swollen shut and only opened a crack. The left one stabbed him with a bright glare of light, then refused to focus. He blinked furiously, trying to clear one eye, any eye—because, _the Mark._ He gasped air, gulped it, and tried to hold it in before he took his left hand off his oozing wound to fumble at his right sleeve, his fingers slippery with blood. He hissed when his hand touched the skin on his forearm, still taut and raw, and totally, completely, smooth.

He flattened his whole palm against his forearm, searching, ignoring the shrieking messages of pain his right arm was blaring out. He moved his left hand up and down, trying to find a line, a bump, but there was nothing. His heart squeezed as he made to sit up, to get up, to grab a weapon, because no Mark could only mean one thing.

" _SAM!!_ " He forced his sore throat to make sound. He formed a fist and tried to lever himself up. He fell back, because his fist was slippery, and all the motion was just pumping the blood out of his chest faster. He gulped air again and summoned all his remaining strength.

" _SAMMY!!_ "

There was a clatter to his left. Something big.

“ _DEAN!!_ ”

Heavy footfalls pounded in his direction. Dean let go of the panicked breath he'd been holding, and his ribs ached again. He heard the soft whooshing to his right, then felt two fingers on his forehead.

Cas.

He barely had time to exhale a breath of relief that everything stopped hurting, when a split second later he was grabbed by both shoulders and rattled, and then squeezed within an inch of his life, and he gave as good as he got, but only with his left arm, because his right one was still unresponsive, dead to the world— _what the hell_ —and he gave Sam a couple of thumps on the back, on account of the whole being suffocated into Sam’s jacket thing—

“Hey, hey, okay. Okay. OW. _EASY_!”

Sam let him up, concern still written loudly all over Sam’s face, checking him over again. He let Sam prop him back up against the wall, because his head was still swimmy, and that was strange, because angel healing usually worked better than this. He turned his head to the left—carefully—to find Cas watching him with the same alarming attentiveness.

“I’m sorry, Dean. You’ve been dead for some time. It may take a little while to recover.”

Dead. _Dead?_ He swiveled back to Sam, only to find Sam glaring at Cas, waggling his eyebrows as if they weren’t planning on bringing that up—

Dead.

Demon.

The Mark.

Panic flared again, the fingertips of his left hand smoothing over clean skin, and he was staring right at Sam, so he knew Sam was okay, and he knew that should be impossible, so

“How?” He demanded.

He shifted to sit up, with Sam's arm supporting him, and moved so the leg that was starting to go numb was eased out from under him. He took the chance to look down at his arm, though that made the room swirl and kaleidoscope for a moment before his vision settled.

The skin on his forearm was bare and pink.

The Mark was gone.

He looked at Sam again in confusion. He looked at Cas. His head did not like the rapid series of movements and did the swirling colors thing again, so he was forced to lean back and close his eyes or vomit. 

" _How?_ " He demanded again, because there was something they were not telling him, something heavy and suspicious in their silence, when he cracked one eye open, and saw them struggling to find words. Sam, who usually had all the words to fill in a space, and _Cas_ , who had zero idea of tact. In a panic he yanked his right arm up so he could look at it, to make sure whatever it was the both of them were stuttering over wasn't some new _angel_ sigil carved seamlessly onto his skin in place of the Mark. To his surprise, his right arm obeyed. As he lifted it off his lap, he felt something slip off his thigh and hit the floor. In the dead pool of total silence, the little plink it made as it hit concrete was as loud as a gunshot.

His heart stopped.

He'd gotten pretty good over the years at training his mind to not go places where it was going to get hurt. But his hands…his hands scrabbled on the floor, feeling blindly for the thing that had fallen from him. He found the leather loop with his forefinger, and reeled the rest in with a tug, until the small metal amulet rested in his palm. He closed his fist around the familiar shape, his eyes open, staring blindly into space, the missing pieces of recent time elapsed crashing sickeningly into place around him.

"Dean." Sam began lowly, reaching out.

" _Don't._ " It took most of his concentration to keep himself from flying apart, to focus on pulling inward, all his muscles tight and vibrating. Cas had fixed his ribs, but every breath was still fire, ripping down his throat. He breathed, because he could do nothing else, and because each breath now had cost so much. He made to stand, placing his right hand tightly fisted onto the ground, the amulet at its center. Sam moved to help him. He stared with dry eyes around the darkness of the warehouse, at the books, only the ordinary, non-glowing, non-apocalypse bringing books, left there now, heaped in piles across the floor.

"Where'd you park?" He asked Sam. He was surprised at how steady his voice sounded, low and controlled. Controlled was good. Maybe later he'd find a bottle of Jack or maybe even the good blue stuff that was Rufus' thing to see if it worked. He gripped the amulet tighter.

He just had to do something first.


	83. To the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Down Like Silver.

From the porch of the weathered yellow Victorian, Xavier watched them with hooded eyes as they pulled up the long gravel drive. Just the Impala. No Durango behind them.

Sam looked at him worriedly as Sam pulled the car to a stop and put on the parking brake. “Dean, are you sure about this?”

Dean nodded stiffly. His hand was frozen on his knee, curled around the amulet protectively like he would never let go. He couldn’t do this. He wanted Sam to pile on the gas, hightail it out of there in a plume of dust, run to the ends of the earth rather than do what came next.

His hand clenched tighter. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Somehow he found himself standing on the porch, staring at the screen door. A hand shot out and blocked his way. He looked into cold gray eyes that flicked up and down over him before locking on the bit of leather trailing from his fist. Xavier’s expression didn’t shift, didn’t flicker, like he had been expecting this.

And that was the most damning thing of all.

He heard Sam come up the porch steps behind him, the wood creaking slightly under Sam’s weight.

“Xavier.” Sam said quietly, a soft sigh in the word.

Xavier’s gaze moved to Sam impassively. He held still for a second before nodding.

“Sam.”

He looked back at Dean, his face still expressionless. Dean’s left hand clenched. He shouldn’t have come. He was not up to this. Emotions ran too close to the surface, raw on his face. There hadn’t been enough time for things to scab over, make a tough outer layer he could show to the world.

Xavier’s hand fell away from the door. The older man’s voice was dead even as he took one step back, allowing Dean access to the front door.

“Go on. He’s waiting for you.”

******

The interior of the house was the riot of color that he remembered. He stepped on the rug just inside the door, trying to keep the memories that pummeled him at bay. He moved into the living room only when Sam bumped up against him from behind, forced to make way for him in the crowded entryway.

Kim stood at the far opposite doorway, one hand on Toby’s shoulder. Toby’s face lit up when he saw him, and Sam behind him, and looked expectantly behind Sam again, his welcoming smile aborted as the mood in the room drifted to him. Quick as a flash, Toby gave him the once over, taking in the hard set of his jaw, then fixed on what was hanging from his right fist.

The kid stepped back and bumped into Kim. Toby’s lower lip quivered before the kid inhaled sharply. In a gesture as familiar as breath, Dean watched as emotion peeled off Toby’s face until nothing was left. Toby straightened away from Kim, all three and a half feet of him, and walked towards the center of the room, still with that expressionless calm. Dean’s feet moved him forward to the halfway point, looking down at the halo of blond hair, and Toby’s rigid shoulders.

He knelt down on one knee, so he could bring himself level.

“Did you kill her?” Toby asked him directly, his baby blue eyes and their blond lashes pinning him as surely as if he’d taken out knives and tacked him to the wall. He felt Sam behind him flinch at the blunt question. Kim started forward and stopped, caught, because she both needed to know and didn’t want to know his answer. He looked at the kid, looked at his own calloused hand, holding the amulet out halfway between them, palm up. Offering or pleading, he was not sure. His eyes flicked up to meet the accusatory blue ones again.

“Yeah. I suppose so.” He’d said it out loud. His voice sounded raspy to his own ears. He tuned out Sam and Kim and all the explanations and excuses that were going to start flying out of their mouths in a minute, and just looked at Toby, waiting.

The kid’s mouth quirked in a humorless expression that was far too old for his years. 

“She said you would say that.” Toby held his gaze mercilessly. “She said I was not to kill you. Not even later, when I can.”

Toby reached out and took the amulet from him, small hands looking tiny against his own. Dean felt his fingers want to close around it, to resist, to snag the bit of metal back, but he willed himself to let go.

Toby looped the cord around his neck, letting the small metal bit dangle halfway down his torso.

“I’ll keep this safe.”

Dean swallowed down hard on the knot in his throat.

He reached out, then pulled his hand back to himself. What could he say? At his half aborted gesture, Toby bit down on his lower lip to keep it still. Blue eyes held his sternly for another second, before Toby spun away. The kid stopped, the slope of his shoulders quivering, before Toby drew a deep breath and turned around again.

“Thank you for bringing this back to me.” 

Toby’s hand darted out and touched his cheek, brushing away the tear that he did not know had formed and started to fall. In the next second Toby bolted towards the stairwell, past Kim’s outstretched arms, past Xavier and up the stairs like hellhounds were chasing him. Kim’s look said she was going to follow, when he croaked out the words that were too rough in his throat.

“No. Just let him go.”

******

He half expected Xavier to stop him at any moment. His boots kicked up dust as he strode across the yard, not listening to the murmur of Sam’s voice behind him, saying all the things that needed to be said to Kim.

“Dean Winchester! You stop right there.”

He stopped. Whatever she needed to heap on his head, he deserved it. Instead, there was a piece of paper being pressed into his hand. He looked up from the dirt he had been staring at in surprise.

“Our number.” Kim closed his motionless fingers gently around the folded slip, as if he might startle and flee. But underneath the sunny bubble there was steel, when she wrapped his hand up in both of hers. “Call. Give Xavier a month or two to cool off, but you call. You talk to him at least once a month. And you come check on him, end of summer.”

His mouth gaped open, glancing involuntarily back up at the porch where Xavier had been, because a month or two didn’t seem long enough. Ten or twenty years were probably not long enough.

“He’ll need you now. I’ll deal with Xavier.” Kim said, without even batting an eye. “So you’ll call. Do you understand me?”

He nodded, mutely, because he was afraid to say no.

“Okay then.” She cupped his wet face gently with her hands. “Okay.”


	84. Adagio for Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from song by Samuel Barber.

He dreamt of her still. 

Ocean waves crashed against rocks in these dreams, a low murmuring rumble off in the distance. She was standing out there, leaning against the railing at the edge of the deck, looking out over the horizon. He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close. Buried his nose in the fragrance of her hair. She eased back against him, trusting him with her slight weight, the fit against him both heaven and a heartache. She would turn, slide her arms around his neck, slip a kiss over his lips, soft and exploring. He would see just how tightly he could hold her, his kiss devouring, all heat and need until she wrapped around him, ecstasy and perfection.

She liked using his chest as her pillow, head tucked beneath his chin, breathing soft and easy with the lassitude of sleep. He stroked her arm lightly, not wanting to wake her, just enough to make sure she was real, but her lips would curve with his smile anyway, like she knew what he was doing. She would curl closer, snuggle deeper, content and secure in the circle of his arm, nightmares banished.

Home.

Often he woke on a breath threatening to become a noise, something choked up and desperate in his throat, hand curling around empty sheet instead of the Bowie knife underneath his pillow. Mercifully, Sam ignored these little chinks in the fourth wall, early in the morning when the dream was too close and too raw. He felt his way blindly through the day, waiting for the night, waiting for the time he could close his eyes and drift off to that other place, where the world wasn’t cutting with each breath. 

He ran out of Jack and ran out of Johnny, and they didn’t work anyway. Then he was angry, angry at her for promising one thing and doing another, angry that she left him to face each cold dawn alone. Angry about the hole eating its way through his chest, at the burden of being human again, assaulted by feelings that threatened to drown him day by day. And he was angry at the slow process of healing that came with his humanity, hesitant fibers weaving their way cautiously across the gap in his heart that should have stayed a wound forever.

Sam was pussyfooting again. Not quite hovering, his need to talk lying there just below the surface of his patient giving-you-space ‘tude. Dean ignored him. Give him something to hunt, something to kill, something to exercise his general rage at the universe on, and he was good to go. 

Warm sunlight beat gently down on him. It was times like this, between jobs, when there was nothing to focus on, nothing to think about except the things hovering at the edge of his perception that were the real problem. He sat on the picnic table at the edge of the lake, propping his feet up on the bench, looking out over the expanse of blue water behind the dam, seeing nothing. He had about twenty minutes before Sam got back from the grub run, which was twenty minutes when Sam wasn’t looking at him like he was a ticking bomb about to implode. If for a moment, he let go of the thing twisting his soul into a knot, he would see the relief in Sam’s face, the gratitude in Sam’s eyes, and, God forgive him, the joy. If in that moment, he felt the ghostly warmth of her hand lace through his, felt a little push towards life and future and hope, felt understanding like a blessing kiss his brow—if he felt those things—he would step forward into life, which he had no business doing.

“I am sorry, Dean.” 

He almost jumped off the table and out of his skin. At the last instant recognition kicked in, so all he did was start and turn to see Cas, still in his trench coat despite the heat, sitting quietly beside him on the table, hands folded over his knees, the blue of the water perfectly reflected in Cas’ unmoving gaze.

“Jesus, Cas. We need to bell you or something.”

“I don’t think so. I already got my wings back, thank you.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. It was not a Wonderful Life, and Cas had earned his wings ten times over by now anyhow. He just wanted a little warning before Cas popped in on him.

He swallowed. He must have let a little prayer slip through his thoughts, or Cas had his ears set on high. Talking was just about the last thing he wanted to do right now, not knowing what he might let slip through, when things were still jumbled in his mind, fighting for supremacy. 

He heard himself talking anyway.

“If I could have broken that hex.”

“Dean.” Cas’ voice was grave.

Cas went silent for so long that he turned to make sure Cas was still there. It wouldn’t be the first time Cas flitted off mid-talk. Angel boy was staring at some far off point over the lake, possibly looking at some spot between dimensions, for all he knew.

“That wasn’t a hex. There’s no such thing as an anti-telekinesis hex.”

The I-told-you-so flash he had was short lived. He already knew he wasn’t going to like what came next.

“It was a bind.”

“A bind?”

“A bind is tied to the wearer’s emotion. You couldn’t have broken it if you tried.”

He didn’t need to ask what that emotion was.

_All that time. It had been sitting right in front of him, all that time._

Sam had been right. It was why the normally perceptive Sam never caught on to the B-side, because all those things—those shining, _impossible_ things Sam believed in, they had been _real_.

He stood, propelled to his feet because he couldn’t sit any longer. Cas got up with him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t shake it off.

“Dean.”

“I’m fine, Cas.”

Strange, now that he thought of it. She so rarely said his name. Hadn’t needed it, for whatever reason.

And she never actually _said_ goodbye.

His mind raced, retracing events from beginning to end, a perfect circle. His heart beat too fast with the thinking of it. 

“Cas.”

Cas anticipated his question. “I don’t know, Dean.”

“You came back.” There, and there it was out. That little secret unvoiced hope, hiding for the fear that saying it out loud would destroy it. “Something brought you back.”

Cas went silent again. He moved forward a few steps, standing at the edge of the path before it dropped off to the water. “Yes.”

It seemed Cas would stop there. Silence stretched, comfortable and easy, in the warm gold light of midday. The chaos of the world in upheaval seemed far away. They stood there for minutes, in the tranquil little bubble of sunshine, looking out over the lake. He felt the warmth curl around him, there and not there, threaded through the sunlight, whispering on the breeze. If he closed his eyes, if he listened to the wind, he could almost believe. How he wanted to believe.

In the distance he heard Baby rumble to a stop as Sam pulled into the parking lot. He heard the rustle of paper bags as Sam gathered up the burgers he’d gone the extra miles to get. Sam got out of the car slowly. He would be looking curiously at the two of them standing there motionless, like they were doing some bizarre meditation thing or yoga pow-wow, which they most definitely were not.

Cas turned to him then, and looked him straight in the eye the way only Cas would do.

“Do you see?”

Dean hauled in a breath around the sharp edges of something stuck in his throat. He looked out at the sunlight sparkling off the water again. The words got stuck in his chest, because they were fragile and the world was still the world and there were still things that moved in the darkness and in the shadows.

He turned to look at Sam walking towards them, fizzy drinks on a cardboard tray in one hand, grease soaked paper bag in the other. There was another bag hanging off Sam’s arm, with a square box sitting in it and a distinctive red-topped can full of artificial fat rolling around on top of that. He could smell the warm cinnamon from here; pumpkin this time, not apple.

He glanced out over the lake again, squinting against the reflected light. His look slid past Cas, wordless and teetering. He knew what it was he held in his hands, in his heart, delicate like a butterfly, the stuff of spun sugar and dreams. His heart ached.

It was easy to forget sometimes, that Cas was an angel, of sorts, and he saw with more than human eyes. After everything Cas had been through, perhaps more than an angel’s sight. Cas looked, and what he saw made him smile. It was a little sad, Cas’ smile, but also satisfied. Of course, Cas chose that moment to flap off with his old-new wings, leaving sunlight where he stood.

Show-off. 

He looked around at Sammy heading up the path towards him, looking back a question at him. _What was that about?_

Not yet.

Most of it Sam already knew. Because Sam was smart that way. But there was just one thing. Just one more thing he needed to show Sam.

His job wasn’t done yet.

Dean brushed off his jeans and met Sam halfway before reaching out for the bag Sam handed to him.

“You remembered the pie.”

Sam gave a small start and tried to hide his relief.

“Yeah.”

Dean nodded shortly, reached down into the cooler, and grabbed two beers, handing one to his brother. As he reached down he glanced at the clean skin of his forearm, tanned evenly by the sun, not a line nor scar left there as a reminder.

A new day. 

His breath rasped out.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.” He kept his answer short, not ready to say more. “Yeah, Sam. Everything’s fine.”


	85. Carry On Wayward Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know it--chapter title by Kansas.

It got like this sometimes. Dean hadn’t said a word to him since Bozeman, hadn’t done more than grunt the bare necessities at him, for months now. _Yes, no, fine, okay,_ when clearly _nothing_ was fine and _nothing_ was okay. 

He’d screwed up bad.

He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know how. Didn’t know how to break the ice for fear it might shatter, didn’t know how to patch things up when things couldn’t be patched over. He looked out the window into the dark.

“Dean. I screwed up.” It should have been easier to say, easier to admit. He took a deep breath, the air cold and dry up in the Beartooth Mountains. “I should have let her go, after Cody. I should have listened to you, after Dolgeville. If I hadn’t wanted to follow her, or Toby, they could have lived their lives. She would still be…..none of this would have happened. This is all my fault.”

His voice creaked at the stony set of Dean’s face. “I’m sorry.”

He shifted in his seat. He’d gambled and lost, and what he had gained, came at too high a price. He stared out the window at the sheer bedrock wall that was one side of the mountain road. It was a road Zee would have loved, all switchbacks and zigzags with a sheer drop off one edge, winding into the night. Involuntarily he glanced into the rearview for the ghost of headlights, but there was nothing there.

Dean had clenched his jaw so tightly that a muscle started ticking at one corner.

“I’m sorry.” Sam repeated, for all the good it did, which was none. It didn’t begin to make up for any of it. He fisted his hands in his lap. “It should have been me.” He stopped when Dean lanced a sharp glance sideways. “Cain said.” Sam looked down at his hands. “After you left, Cain said the spell was the one secret he’d kept back from Colette.”

He’d wanted to look Dean in the eye when he said that, but he was afraid to.

Dean heaved a sigh, the weight of the world in it. Dean eyed the road ahead to check they were on a straight stretch, before Dean turned to look at him, eyes starlight bright in the darkness, patient like there was something he just didn’t get.

“It wouldn’t have worked for Colette.”

“What?” 

“The spell.” Dean said slowly. “It wouldn’t have worked for Colette. It wouldn’t have worked on Cain.”

“What?” He ogled, uncomprehending.

Dean went back to staring straight ahead, hands tight at ten and two on the steering wheel.

“Cain had already lost the thing that would have saved his soul, Sam. The hell that’s in Cain’s heart; there ain’t no erasing that.”

_Abel._

Zee had already told him, but he hadn’t understood.

_Look after him, Sam. Keep him safe. Keep his soul safe._

“Dean.” It was a broken word, crushed by the weight of everything Dean had given up for him, everything they had lost, and for what? To fight the good fight, when he was slowly but surely losing himself? If sacrifice was the cost of keeping him alive—Benny, Kevin, Zee, Mom— _Dean_ —he couldn’t pay it. It was too much.

Dean sighed.

“No, Sammy. _I’m_ sorry.”

“What?” He asked blankly for a third time, completely lost now, because why the _hell_ was Dean apologizing to him?

“For putting all this on you. For keeping you in the life. You were right. I couldn’t…” Dean shook his head briefly. “… not you. Not again. This thing we do, saving people, hunting things? The family business? I think it’s the right thing to do. It’s the thing that _I_ do. And what does any of it mean, if I can’t save you?” Dean paused. “But in the end, I haven’t saved _you_ , have I, Sam? Not in the way it really matters, Sammy. Not for yourself.”

“ _Dean._ ”

"Let me finish. When Cas was human, I told him to walk away. This wasn't his fight anymore. But you've never really had that choice, have you? And you should. You’ve done good, Sam. You’ve done enough.”

He gaped at his brother. He tried his best not to, but he gaped anyway. His hand itched toward his flask of holy water or toward the holy oil, because …

Was he getting _fired_? 

“I tracked her.” He blurted. “I know you told me not to, but I tracked her. When we found her again, at that churchyard in Trappe, that wasn’t an accident.”

Dean’s hand tightened on the wheel, but there was no surprise on his face. Dean kept his eyes straight ahead and unblinking on the slick asphalt, and Sam braced himself. If anything, Dean just looked resigned, as if _talking_ was a thing they were doing now, and he was in for both the dime and the dollar.

“Sammy…” Dean paused, lips pursed, before he sighed. “Back at Trappe --that wasn’t an anti-telekinesis hex.” Dean said abruptly. “It was a bind.”

A….

_Cupid’s bowstring._

_Never did like the wanker. Don’t worry about that._

_The third element to break Metatron’s spell._

“I didn’t…. I didn’t think….” Dean ground out, low, squeezing his eyes hard shut for a second. “The spell shouldn’t have worked, dammit. I was supposed to be a friggin’ _job_. A useful weapon, at best. ” Dean inhaled like he couldn’t get enough air. “I thought—maybe—despite everything—that you might try. You, or maybe Cas. But I never thought … I never expected…” Dean stopped and breathed fiercely through his nose for a full minute. “She should’ve exorcised my ass from the word go.”

The next breath Dean took was broken. “ _Why_?”

Saving _people_ , hunting _things_ , when they had first met Zee in Dolgeville, in that clearing.

She had hesitated; her hand on the hilt of her katana.

_Wolf eyes_ , _somehow both fire and ice. In a dark alley, a wise man steered clear._

_What had she seen?_

“I think,” Sam said slowly, “Somehow… she _saw_ you, Dean, even when I didn’t. Back in that clearing in Dolgeville, she saw _you_. Not a demon. Not a hero.” Dean winced. “Just a man.” Sam stopped, because he knew what Zee would have said, and the words felt right in his heart. “A righteous man.”

Dean’s breath hitched.

“Sam, I…”

And Dean cut off there, because, yeah. 

The road wound on out into the darkness, a blur of black under the Impala's wheels. The windshield was misted with rain, and the center yellow bright under the headlights. There was still a lunatic archangel on the loose, hell bent on reshaping the world, on top of the everyday monsters and demons and lost souls.

He had dreamt once, of a different life, of being normal. Of not being the freak that the life had made him, but of being just a _person_.

But maybe he had had this backwards all along. 

Sam sank deeper into the seat and leaned his head against the side, finding a familiar uncomfortable angle between the window and the seat. Dean shot him a glance just as he closed his eyes and settled himself in to sleep. 

"Wake me up when it's my turn to drive." he said to his brother. "We've got work to do." 


	86. A Place Called Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is by Kim Richey.

_CODA_

Dean shifted his weight on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position for his hip. He could hear Sam talking to someone in a low voice just outside his door, but couldn't make out the words. His hearing had been shot for a few years now, after so many rounds of shots fired without hearing protection. He laughed a dry laugh to himself. He could just see what Dad would say about that. Ghosts and werewolves and shifters weren't going to wait for you to put on muffs before tearing your throat out.

Of course, most hunters didn't hunt for sixty odd years. Neither he nor Sam thought they'd be around this long, but here they were, house in the suburbs, the whole nine. It wasn't his house, to be fair. His place was out of town. A ways out.

He liked space. He liked quiet. He liked the booby traps and jerry-rigged this and that that kept things at bay. It wasn't Bobby's and it wasn't the bunker, but it was home and it suited him.

No, this was Sam's place. Sam and Abby’s. Still had the salt lines embedded in the door frames, under the rug demon traps, holy water on tap, and a few strange spices and oils in the kitchen, but Sammy quit. He quit as best he could, and that turned out to be pretty good after all, for a monster magnet. Sam had grandchildren now, which was hard to imagine. His kids worked normal, boring jobs with normal, predictable hours. When they wanted to cross the country, they flew, for God's sakes. Something had clearly gone haywire with their upbringing.

Dean didn't tell them they'd come this close to being born and raised in a 1950s era bunker, because Sam was a wuss and had a near meltdown when Abigail was pregnant with their first. There were more wards and sigils painted onto the house in tone on tone paint and worked into the curlicue designs in the wallpaper than a polka had dots. And Sam _still_ wanted to move to the bunker, at least for the birth, and maybe a few months more "to see". Abs was made of tougher stuff though, and no amount of puppy eyes or reasonable hysteria was going to shift her. She'd looked at her husband with that sort of unflappable confidence she had in him, and said, "Whatever comes at us, Sam Winchester, I know you will take care of it."

And that was that.

Dean gave her points for that. He had tried to tell Sam that if he wanted to raise his kids with a normal apple pie life, maybe the bunker and its giant collection of supernatural knickknacks was not the best place to start. Sammy listened to him about as much as always, which is to say he got nowhere at all.

And now here he was in Sam's downstairs guest room, dying of old age, of all the ignominious things to die of. The doctors called it something else with a lot of syllables and no meaning. Sam wanted him to take pills and get shots and let them poke around his insides, but Dean informed him curtly he'd had enough with people poking around his insides for several lifetimes, thank you. Some part of him wanted to be at home; his home, with the quiet and the solitude and just the occasional call from some young buck who wanted to know how to gank a rugaru. But this was good too. The kids and the grandkids came by, Abs hovered judiciously, and Sam talked. Yeah, this was okay.

The door handle turned and the floorboards creaked a little under the weight of the man that walked in. A hunter. Dean could tell that much right off, even though the guy's shirt was crisp and his slacks were perfectly pressed. It was something about the walk, that he was making less noise than a normal person in the polished loafers, careful where he put his weight, and left his hands relaxed and loose by his sides. He looked up, and the face--the face he'd seen before, but not for a while now. In a minute, he would be able to place it, if he weren't distracted by Sam hovering at the door, anxiety rolling off him in waves. Viking blond hair, sky blue eyes, hard cheekbones, and Navy Seal arms.

Toby.

Dean half sat up. Sam rushed forward, but Toby was there first. _Well, naturally._ He felt the younger man's arms lift him to the sitting position he was looking for without any effort, and settle him gently against his pillows.

"Hello, Dean."

Toby must be in his late thirties now, and he was a lady killer. He'd somehow managed to pick up Sam's trust me eyes and still look like you didn't want to mess with him in a bar fight. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Dean noticed he still had that ridiculously long girlie lashes, and that he'd picked up a wicked scar on the back of his left hand at some point.

"You heard, huh?" Dean harrumphed. The fact that news of his own impending demise, by _natural_ causes, was making the rounds on the hunter's circuit was really kind of morbid if he stopped to think about it. The thought of it made him wish he were back at his place, with the booby traps, except Toby he _did_ want to see. He looked him over critically, checking for other injuries, and tapped him on the hand. On the scar, to be precise. "What's that?"

Toby gave the angry line that bisected his hand a casual look. "Nachtkrapp." he replied, with a little bit of a smile. "I was careless. The knife was hot."

Dean read that as "all hell broke loose and I was lucky to get out" but he just made another harrumphing noise.

"How are you, old man?" Toby asked.

"Eh." Dean met his eyes. Toby always did talk with his eyes when he felt like talking. He read the concern in them, but it was a different concern than Sam's concern. "It'll be okay." Dean said, resisting the urge to pat him on the hand. "You should come out to my place next time. Check my traps."

"Yeah. That'd be good. Xavier's got some new ones too."

They lapsed into a companionable silence. After a while, Toby shifted. Dean smiled to himself. Death really was a conversation killer. Toby caught his look and the corner of his mouth kicked up wryly. Then he sobered, his face growing serious.

"I wanted you to have something." Toby said, his voice grave. He reached around his neck and started tugging at a leather strap just below his collar, pulling it over his head. Dean's breath halted as he looked at it. He knew what that strap was attached to, and it almost pained him to breathe.

The amulet swung free as Toby extracted it from inside his dress shirt. As Toby held it out between them, it caught in a stray bit of sunlight. Dean held out his hand for it, their positions a mirror of that scene so long ago. Toby set the amulet down gently in his palm, and Dean closed his fist around it, tightly. He knew he was making Sam anxious because he had started breathing hard, but he didn't know how to tell Sam not to worry, because this was a good pain.

Toby was talking again, his voice low. He put his own hand around Dean's fist, a benedictory, comforting warmth. "Do you remember, when you used to tell me about her?"

Dean nodded. He wasn't sure he could talk around the frog in his throat just now, so he nodded.

"Do you remember how you first met? Not the time with me, but the time before that?" Toby held his gaze as he said it, vibrating with intensity and emotion, as if Toby were just a kid again. When he nodded, Toby leaned forward. "And do you remember telling me what the very first and very last thing she ever said to you was?"

_Find me._

Her voice whispered it in his mind, as clear as day, as if she were standing right beside him. His breath stuck in his throat, as hope, _impossible_ hope, bloomed in his chest. He looked up at Toby, at the shining faith in Toby’s eyes. He didn't break Toby's gaze, didn't look at the doorway where Sam was now leaning with his cellphone in one hand, ready to dial 911. He put his other hand over Toby's, and squeezed. Toby smiled, a faint smile, full of sadness and acceptance. Toby let go of their clasped hands.

"See you around, old man." Toby said gruffly, giving the bed a final pat. He got up and walked to Sam, putting his arm around him and guiding Sam down the hall, talking to him with that easy charm and warmth he had. Dean was grateful for that, because he needed a sec. He opened his fist and looked at the small metal shape in silence for a long while, then looped the cord over his head and settled the amulet carefully against his skin. When he looked up again, Sam was leaning against the door frame, Sam’s arms crossed defensively in front of him, watching him carefully.

Dean wrapped his hand protectively over the amulet. His voice came out raw, the constant ache he had never meant for Sam to know, spilling out at last. “Every day, Sam. Every damned day.”

All the fight whooshed out of Sam as Sam deflated. “I know, Dean. I’ve known.” Sam’s lips twitched, wry. “I figured you hadn’t taken up with morning drills again for nothing.”

It’d been something to do. A way to hold on to a dream, trying to trap a fragment of time. His was more of target practice and gun cleaning variety, but the effect was the same. It was a time when he didn’t need to talk, didn’t need to pretend, didn’t need to feel. One morning had turned into two, two turned into three, and then it was just something he did.

Sam dropped his arms down by his sides with a sigh, because Sam had always seen through all that. Sam’s glance slid past him to the brightness of the day outside.

“You know, I always thought that in the end, we’d…” Sam stopped there and stared out the window, before Sam smiled wistfully. “But then, if anyone can do impossible things, Dean, it’d be you. Don’t you think she knew that?”

“Sammy.”

Sam sat down in the spot Toby had just vacated. “You’ve done good, Dean. This life,” Sam’s smile widened as he cocked his head to the sound of the grandkids making a racket down the hall, “It’s been a good life, Dean.”

And then Sam huffed, sly amusement crinkling the lines the years had drawn on his baby brother’s face. Sam raised an eyebrow. “Plus, Toby said.” Dean held his breath. “You needn’t worry, because he’ll watch over us.”

Dean snorted. As if Sam couldn’t hold his own. But Toby...the thought made him grin as he eased back into the pillows. The sharpening shriek that was Robbie getting chased around the house by Cassie brought Sam to his feet.

“I should...” Sam said ruefully. “...before they kill each other.”

“Yeah.”

Sam hesitated, standing there. “Abs made apple pie.”

He looked at Sam, not really trusting himself to speak. “Yeah.”

Sam crossed the room. When he got to the doorway, Sam stopped, putting one hand on the door before turning back. There was a tremor in Sam’s voice.

“We’ll be waiting, Dean. Wherever we are. You know that.”

His throat was tight. “Yeah. Yeah, I do, Sam. I do.” He summoned up a smile for his brother. “Now go, before she tears all his hair out.”

Sam flashed him a lightening grin and headed down the hall. He knew, that despite all Sam’s brave words, Sam would be back in a minute. They'd bring him dinner; he'd take his pills. They'd talk for a while, and the kids would be by to collect their kids and it would be all screams and laughter and family. It was good. Sam would come back and talk some more. Maybe Cas would show. Then he'd close his eyes and settle in for the night. He rather thought the next time he opened them, some friend of Tessa’s might be there. 

He looked down at the amulet in the center of his palm, warmed now by his skin.

“I will find you.” He smiled. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos! They are all dragged off to the lair and cooed over muchly for the precious gems they are. <3


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